


Suite Jesse Blue Eyes

by SegaBarrett



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 44,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walt finds out he only has a year left, and goes to spend it with his ex-partner. But Jesse has moved on and has a new life in Philadelphia - is there a place for Walt in it? Takes place 3 years after 4x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no characters from Breaking Bad and make no money from this.
> 
> Note: Lyrics at the beginning of each chapter are from "Suite Judy Blue Eyes" by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

_“It’s getting to the point  
Where I’m no fun anymore  
I am sorry…”_

“How much longer?”

“A year, at most.”

The words echo in his head, but the emotional reaction he feels he should have isn’t there; instead, he feels something like relief. Four years is much longer than he had thought he would have originally.

But unlike that time, and unlike that perfect moment when he wishes he would have died, Skyler has left, is gone, and so are his children. Walt is alone.

There is no one to go to in his time of dying.

It’s grounding, to a man who’s spent the last couple years declaring to himself that he doesn’t need a damn person at all. If Skyler wants to go, let her – she never understood a goddamn thing after he changed, stopped taking her crap, if she wants to run off to… Arizona or Colorado or wherever it had been, then let her. 

But now, it’s that brief moment when Walt needs someone to be there. When the doctor inquires, “Is there anyone you’d like to call? To have with you?”

He says no, curtly, and walks out.

Well, there is one person. Someone Walt has not seen in three years. Someone who lives… well, Walt doesn’t know.

He’s reluctant to even find out. Given all that Walt has done, maybe he deserves to die alone.

But selfishness and desperation win out.

He opens his laptop and places it on the table in the middle of his condo. Maybe Jesse has completely fallen off the face of the Earth since taking off with Andrea. Since after Gus, since after the calls on his voicemail asking to meet… after finally agreeing and being told that Andrea gave him an ultimatum. No more of this; a new life.

Maybe Jesse has vanished… but Walt types the name anyway. 

Jesse’s social networking profiles pop up, but none of them have been updated for years.

Finally, a few pages in, there’s a webpage hosted by Temple University. He clicks it, and there’s a photograph of a class of smiling students. 

“Dr. Tamis’ Comic Book Writing Class”, the caption reads, followed by a left-to-right listing of names. Jesse is front and center, flanked by two curly-haired, red-headed girls. 

_So, Temple. That’s in Philadelphia._

He types in, “Jesse Pinkman, Philadelphia, PA” on Spokeo, and quickly is granted an address and phone number.

He wants to call; doesn’t want to drop in unannounced.

But if he calls, Jesse could hang up. Or, maybe it’s someone else’s home by now, and Jesse has moved on. 

_Or worse._

He quickly throws away that possibility… He’ll just go – it’s not like it will be a wasted trip if Jesse isn’t there. Philadelphia is a wonderful city.

And if Jesse tells Walt to get the hell out, well, at least he got to see him one last time. To see whether Jesse is happy now.  
Before he can rethink it, he purchases a ticket for the following day: 11AM. That will get him there before evening, and he’s usually too worn out to do anything in the evenings.

He looks at the address on Mapquest and finds that it’s in the south-central part of Philadelphia, off of 15th and Christian Streets. He books a hotel only five or six blocks above there, a classy affair, the Doubletree.

He might as well live it up.

***

Walt can see a fly embedded in the plane’s overhead track lighting.

He wonders how it got there, how long it’s been there. If any raucous passengers have gotten tired of looking at the fucking thing and jumped up and tried to smash the glass and rip it out.

The young Asian woman next to Walt keeps playing on her cell phone, and he bites back a warning that you’re not supposed to use your airplane on flights – can’t those damn things take down a plane? After all, that is why they have those goddamned airplane phones that charge you a fortune – if he was expected, he would be considering calling Jesse on that phone. 

But he’s not expected, nor is he missed. He hasn’t told a soul where he’s going; it’s kind of liberating in a sense, like their crazy RV adventures with their thrill of the forbidden after fifty years on the straight-and-narrow, the eternally predictable.

When the plane lands in Philadelphia, he’s a little dazzled by the array of lights; it reminds him of being back in California, of driving to LA and seeing the stacks and rows of buildings piled on top of one another, separated only by far too many palm trees.

More than anything, Walt is filled upon landing with a simple truth, and a simple phrase – _Jesse is here. Jesse is here and I’m going to see him, one last time._


	2. Chapter 2

_“Sometimes it hurts so badly  
I must cry out loud  
I am lonely…”_

Walt takes a train from the airport to downtown; he decides he’ll check into his hotel first, before looking for Jesse. He doesn’t know, after all, where he’ll find the young man – at his home, at Temple, at a job, or a friend’s? _Or maybe this is a wild goose chase - but if it isn’t…_ Walt can hear his heart beat faster as he pictures Jesse’s faces… He isn’t even sure exactly what he’ll say, what he _would_ say, if this actually works.

The hotel is a much more surmountable obstacle. He finds it quickly – it’s an extremely large affair with huge potted trees and marble halls. He floats up to his floor, 28, walks down the hall and hears a ring of silence tap against his ear. It’s the sound of death come knocking for him, come ringing his bell.

He reaches in his pocket and feels for his keycard, slides it into the slot and watches it pause, pause, turn to green. He pushes the handle forward, steps inside and sees the bed, a bed seemingly way too big for just him. If he were about twenty years younger, maybe he’d dial an escort service, ask for a blonde – no, not a blonde, a brunette, curvy and dark-eyed with a nice, firm ass. Now it would just seem pathetic; he has no desire to turn into some prostitute’s Make-a-Wish Foundation. 

He throws his suitcase on the bed and throws off his coat before walking into the bathroom and looking at himself in the mirror, looking at himself like Jesse would see him. His eyes have grown lighter, his skin paler, and his skin has gotten hard, peeling in a few places, pockmarked with spots of what looked like over-scratched bug bites.

He could look worse.

He strips off his clothes and steps into the shower, turns the faucet all the way in the direction of “H”, scrubs until he’s bright red, yet his anxiety isn’t abated; he gives up and steps out on to the tile floor, grabbing a white fluffy towel off the rack. He wraps it around himself and dries, then pulls on a fresh set of clothes. He looks dapper, professional, like he’s going to a job interview.

He leaves the hotel and walks to the Clothespin, the center of the city, and ogles at the strange monument for a few moments. He crosses the street in a mob of people and when he arrives at the other side, he finds himself flanked by big blue plastic tents and a cluster of people holding signs proclaiming that they are the “99%”.

He ignores the political movement, despite hearing a catcall as he passes through, and walks down the coiling staircase, past two men who are begging with coffee-cups in hand, clinking them and rattling the change within.

He follows a long orange bar-sign to the Broad Street Line, a dark and dirty tunnel of a station.

A blinding light bursts out from the oncoming train, and when the train finally stops in front of them there’s a long lingering moment before the doors grind open, letting in Walt and the cluster of jostling passengers behind him.  
He wonders if this is Jesse’s daily commute, if Jesse’s become an urbanite, a city boy. He had apparently become a college boy, Walt remembers, if only briefly.

Too soon, he has arrived at Lombard-South Station, the stop to get off at for Jesse’s house.

He walks above ground, down another block, and there it is – a huge house, must be three or four bedrooms, with a yard and a metal fence. 

Walt takes a breath; here goes nothing.

He walks past the gate, up the steps, and rings the doorbell – and waits. His mind cycles through possibilities – a completely different person answering who has never heard of Jesse, an angry Andrea who warns him away, a new girl entirely fluttering over to him and telling him that Jesse is “out”. He expects any of these.

The door opens, the inside wooden one and then the outside metal frame (in which designs of flowers and some kind of bird are coiled); Walt finds himself staring at the slack-jawed, older, taller (just an inch or two, or maybe that’s because his hair is no longer shaved off but grown in a rather conservative fluffed-up cut), but still so completely recognizable form of Jesse Pinkman. He no longer has any idea what to say.


	3. Chapter 3

_“I am yours, you are mine  
You are what you are  
And you make it hard”_

Jesse stares, not moving and not speaking, before blinking slowly and rubbing at his eyes, as if figuring that the person before him is merely a mirage.

“Jesse,” Walt says finally. “I’m sorry to just…” He trails off, because there’s really no way to end that sentence.

“Mr. White,” Jesse replies, looking him up and down. “What happened to you?” Walt flushed; is it that obvious?

“Jesse, I…” His mouth stays open, but nothing comes out.

“Come in,” Jesse says quickly, opening the door wider and gesturing inside as he steps back. “How’d you find me?” he asks as Walt steps gingerly on to the beige carpet, looking around and taking a mental inventory – Jesse’s living room is sparsely furnished, a drab gray couch in front of a large TV; most of the rest of the room consists of scattered toys, trucks and Hot Wheels and an overturned remote-controlled helicopter. “Take a seat,” Jesse says, his hand drifting in the direction of the couch as he moves to sit there himself. Walt joins him, slowly sinking into the couch cushion; he suddenly realizes why Jesse bought it despite its boring color.

_He’s invited me in. This is a good sign. He hasn’t slammed the door in my face and told me to go get fucked._

“So what brings you – here?” Jesse inquires, looking at Walt with an unreadable expression. Walt is struck by just how much older Jesse looks, not in his features but in his eyes. _Well, he’s twenty-eight, now, it’s… to be expected._ But maybe it isn’t. Maybe he imagined Jesse frozen in time, exactly how he’d left him.

“Bad news,” Walt replies simply, and Jesse looks at him with understanding. When did he become so synchronized, Walt wonders, wasn’t this the boy he always had to spell everything out to?

“How long?” Jesse’s voice is soft, as if saying the words makes it real. To Walt, it does.

“A year. Maybe less.”

Jesse looks away, looks down.

“I wanted to see you.” Walt pauses, not wanting to finish with “one last time”. “Again,” he says instead.

“I’m glad you did,” Jesse tells him. “Where are you staying?”

“The Doubletree.” Jesse’s eyes go wide.

“That’s so expensive.” _So he’s frugal now, too._ “Stay here?”

“For how long?” Jesse shrugs.

“’Til you go back home to ABQ.”

“I’m not going back.” Jesse looks over like he must have misheard.

“Your wife? Your kids?” Walt raises a ringless finger.

“They moved on. Moved out. I see Junior a couple weekends.”

“A month?”

“A year.”

“But he’s… eighteen,” Jesse points out, “She can’t keep him…”

“Nineteen,” Walt corrects, “And away at college. Northwestern.” Jesse nods somberly.

“Holly?”

“With Skyler.” Walt waves his hands in the direction of “somewhere”. Jesse fiddles with the ring on his own finger, Walt following his gaze. “You married… Andrea?”

“Yeah,” Jesse replies, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Where’s she? Is she going to be okay with me staying here?” Walt presses, jealousy flushing to his features.

“Not here,” Jesse responds, without a show of emotion. “Just me and Brock.” Walt blinks.

“What happened?” Jesse stares at his hands, speaking as if he’s reciting a catechism, parroting lines.

“When we got married, I adopted Brock. Two years ago – not that long after we got married, eight months, maybe, she went back to New Mexico to help take care of her grandma awhile, then she was gonna move her back up here with us. She… backslid, wanted to bring Brock back, to be around those same people, I said no – told her I’d fight for custody. She eventually… met somebody else, agreed to let me raise Brock while she sorted her shit out. We’re still technically married, she still might… come back when she gets it all sorted out.” Jesse shrugs, and Walt doesn’t comment. The younger man looks at Walt, seemingly waiting for a sarcastic reply, and when he doesn’t get one that he has to defend Andrea against, he simply sticks his hands in his pockets. “You should stay.”

It’s not “I want you to stay” nor is it even a passive “I’d like you to stay”; instead, it is simply a fact of nature – it is rational for him to stay. When Walt still doesn’t say anything, he adds, “What do you have to lose?”


	4. Chapter 4

_“Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other  
Oh babe, have mercy” _

Walt spends the night in his hotel – he might as well, given that he’s already paid for it.

The next morning, he’s returned to Jesse’s doorstep with all of his things – too much for a trip, but there’s much he’s left behind in Albuquerque, much of it meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Jesse helps him carry the suitcases and bags in and sets up shop in a guest room.

“Brock’s room is to the far left,” Jesse tells him, “And mine’s in the middle. Yours is next to mine, and then there’s a room we converted into, like, a computer room or study type of thing on the far right.” He gestures to each room as he speaks. “I hope the room’s okay, it’s been awhile since anybody actually used it, ya know?”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Jesse,” Walt replies, “So… You… Wow.” He looks around, then back at Jesse. “You look well. What are you doing with your time?”

“Raising Brock – going to Temple, I’m an…” Jesse pauses a moment, “Art major for… comic book design, is what I want to do, that’s my plan. I write and act in the school plays twice a semester. I work for the college in the Admissions office.”

“Well, that’s great, Jesse.” Walt can hardly believe it’s the same young man who had thought he had no talents beyond cooking meth – the man who Walt had said, had believed had no talents at all. Jesse flushes with a bit of pride, shrugging.

“It’s not a bad life,” he says simply. Walt doesn’t know whether he really wants to impede on Jesse’s “not bad” life anymore, but he doesn’t say anything; instead, he lets Jesse lead him into the guest room, show him where extra sheets are and where the remote is, which belongs to a twelve-inch TV in the corner of the room. Jesse glides back to his own room while Walt slowly takes a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at the walls, which are painted a light shade of green. He lies back, eyes on the ceiling now, wondering why he decided to make this trip, what he really hoped to accomplish. He can’t settle on any one answer.

***

Jesse, in the room next door, is lying back and staring at his ceiling. The past day has been a series of slow steps done quickly, knee-jerk reactions and emotional pulls. He’s invited this man into his home who was central to him for one year of his life, who he’s not seen for three, who he didn’t really want to see, not after…

The poisoning. Gus. All of it. That wasn’t what he wanted his life to be, living constantly on the razor’s edge, a step too far to the left meaning death or harm to someone he loved. And so he’d left, giving him the most rudimentary of explanations, took his money and put it into a fund where Saul, for a generous portion, doles it out monthly to Jesse so he can’t spend it on crystal or hookers or other vices.

He’s built a suburban life (albeit in the city) with his ill-gotten funds, and it’s been… nice… safe, if not always comfortable, especially when Andrea…

Well, better to not think about Andrea, whose face still adorns numerous mantles in his – their – home, because to take them down would confirm to Brock that she’s abandoned him, doesn’t care about him.

As if cued up, the phone rings, and even before looking at the Caller ID, Jesse knows who would call this late.

“Call from Cantillo, A.,” the caller ID announces.

Jesse picks it up.

“Hey,” he answers.

“Jesse, hey, could I – I know it’s late, but can I talk to Brock? Please?”

“He’s in bed,” Jesse protests, but it’s all just a game, a negotiation. He gazes at the clock and decides it’s only ten o’clock, and sighs. “I’ll get him. Hold on.” Jesse picks up the phone and walks to Brock’s room, quietly opens the door. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls softly. “Mommy’s on the phone.” He hands the phone to Brock and leaves; he cannot sit and listen to the boy ask her when she’s coming home.

Jesse can’t help but think that it is what he was and is, in combination and contradiction, that has driven Andrea away into whatever self-destructive trip she is currently on.

Eventually, after Jesse’s lost track of time, Brock walks back into his room. 

“She wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Brock,” Jesse replies, kissing the boy on the forehead before taking the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So, any news on when you’re, y’know, coming back?”

“Jesse, we… talked about this. I gotta figure this all out, what… we are… I mean, Jesse – you’ve… done things. I don’t know what to do about that, okay? And I don’t know what to do about me, either. I can’t be a perfect suburban wife when I’ve got all this – shit rolling around in my head, and until I get it out or figure it out, I’m not any good for you or me or Brock.”

“All right,” Jesse replies, refusing to argue in front of Brock. “Just… stay safe, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, Jesse.” The dial tone sounds, and Jesse replaces the phone on the console.

“Is she coming home?” Brock inquires, eyes wide and full of beaten-down hope.

“Not yet,” Jesse tells him. “But soon. We just have to be patient, okay?” Brock nods and moves a little closer to Jesse, a little sheepish at seeking his comfort. “C’mere.” Jesse reaches out and hugs him, squeezing him gently and rubbing the boy’s back. 

“It’s gonna be okay, okay?” 

Brock nods, pausing a moment before quietly asking, “Who’s in the guest room?”

“My friend. His name is Mr. White. He used to be my teacher,” Jesse explains, the words coming awkwardly.

“What’s he like?” Brock asks. Jesse hesitates.

“He’s very smart,” he replies, finally. “He had a hard life, recently. He’s sick.”

“Sick how?” Brock asks, tipping his head to the side.

“Cancer,” Jesse replies, his voice quiet. Brock moves closer, hugs Jesse tight.

“Is he going to die, Jesse?”

Jesse swallows and looks away.

“Yeah… Yeah, honey, he’s going to.”


	5. Chapter 5

_“Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now  
I am not dreaming…”_

There’s a sound of gentle tapping against wood which awakens Walt, and he rises slowly and crosses the room to open the door. 

“Hey,” Jesse tells him as Walt looks at the younger man, who is now smiling sheepishly, hands in his pockets and looking like the boy he’d known rather than the man he’s found unexpectedly; when he pulls out his hands, however, the illusion cracks and Jesse at twenty-eight is standing there. “I was gonna make breakfast before I take Brock to school… Do you wanna come down?”

“Um, sure,” Walt replies quickly, “Let me just go and change…” He realizes that he hasn’t really brought enough clothes to last this… whatever it is, and he’ll have to go shopping if he has the energy. Right now, however, he closes the door and strips off his shirt, looks at the thinning frame in the full-length mirror at the back of the room. There’s something darkening there, yet something else is fading, and he pulls another shirt on quickly, not wanting to see it. He changes his pants with his head turned to the wall, before brushing himself off and walking to the door.

He takes a deep breath before reaching the handle and turning it slowly.

A moment later, he is in the hall, looking down – red and brown carpet, soft, dotted with little gold circles. Down the steps, now, and into the dining room where Jesse is standing across from where Brock is sitting, a carton of orange juice between them. 

“I have bacon and eggs on the fryer,” Jesse tells him, smiling as he hands Brock a cup of juice. He walks over to the frying pan, gripping it and tossing around the food within. “Take a seat.” _It’s a Norman Rockwell painting,_ Walt thinks.

Walt obeys, smiling awkwardly as he sits on the other side of Brock. He looks at the boy and keeps the smile pasted on his face, wondering if he somehow remembers him and hoping to God he doesn’t.

“Hi,” Brock pipes up, “I’m Brock. You’re… Mr. White?”

“Yeah,” Walt replies, flushing a little at the fact that Jesse still calls him that, after all this time, all this shit between them. Still that oddly-placed respect and trust. Brock smiles shyly.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Bacon?” Jesse inquires, pulling out three plates and scooping some bacon and eggs on to each of them. 

“Yes – sure, thanks, Jesse,” Walt replies hastily, still staring worriedly at Brock.

Jesse finishes setting the plates and sits down with the two.

“So, Brock, you’ve got that parent-teacher conference this week, right, on Wednesday?” Brock groans.

“I hate her,” he responds, leaning his chin on his hand in exasperation.

“Don’t worry,” Jesse tells him encouragingly. He places his hand gently on Brock’s shoulder. “I’ll get it all worked out.”

“Parent-teacher conference, eh?” Walt chimes in. “They aren’t much fun for the teacher, either.” Both Jesse and Brock look up with some annoyance. 

“Well, this lady is something else,” Jesse explains. “Nothing Brock does is good enough for her. I’m kinda looking to give her a piece of my mind.” He scoops up an egg with his fork. “Well, two more days and then I get my chance.” Jesse gazes up at the clock. “Crap! We better get ready. You coming, Mr. White?”

Walt looks from Jesse to Brock and back again, and shrugs.

“Sure, why not?”

***

They collect Brock’s things together and walk out the front door, walking over to a red Chrysler Sedan that’s been parked on the street.

At the next car over (a black VW bug) a young woman, tan-skinned and dark-eyed (Walt thinks she looks Middle-Eastern of some sort, or maybe Indian, and gazes a little too long at her, on the guise of trying to figure out exactly what country she’s from) looks over and waves at the group. 

“Jesse!” she exclaims. “Who’s your… friend? Family member? I haven’t seen any of the mysterious extended Pinkman family,” she teases. Walt looks from the girl to Jesse.

“Nah,” Jesse replies with a wide, comfortable smile. “This is an old friend of mine. His name’s Mr. White. Mr. White, this is Donya, my tenant. I bought the house next door a couple of months back and she’s the first person renting it.” 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, stepping forward to shake Walt’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Walt replies, a bit stiffly. 

“Anyway, I better try and beat the traffic,” Jesse speaks up after a moment.

“Good luck,” Donya tells him. “I hear there’s a tractor-trailer down on I-76.”

“Again?” Jesse groans. “Well… what can you do?” He reaches into his pocket and presses the button on his electronic key, unlocking the door. “Have a good one! I’ll see you at work!” He waves to the girl before opening the driver’s side and back doors, waiting as Brock and Walt both climb in and buckle up before climbing in himself and slamming his own door. When they’ve driven off the street and are making their way down the road, Walt looks into the mirror and speaks up.

“So, your tenant, huh? Black hair, exotic look…”

Jesse laughs in surprise.

“No, it’s not like that! Her roommates were a bunch of partiers… She needed a place to live… I had just gotten the property… I rent to her cheap and she watches Brock sometimes.” Walt gives Jesse a wink, and Jesse brushes it off. He pulls into another lane and changes the subject. “Brock goes to this school called the Haywood School. Real prestigious, it’s on the Main Line – was a pain in the ass getting him in – but, I dunno.”

“You ‘dunno’?” Walt echoes, inquiring. Jesse shrugs, not wanting to pursue the topic in front of Brock, who’s looking at them curiously and seeming to want to chime in, but holding back. He fiddles with the radio and puts on a classic rock station, driving the rest of the way in silence. He pulls up in front of the school and pops open the door again, hopping out and letting Brock out.

Brock walks in a slow stride, looking back at Jesse after a few steps.

“Have a good day!” Jesse calls. “I love you.” Brock smiles and flushes before turning back away, heading into the school.  
There’s a long moment before Jesse looks back at Walt, and when he climbs back in the car, Walt can see bright red rims around the blue eyes, but doesn’t mention it. Jesse locks the doors again and begins to drive.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note that the Temple faculty in this story are all fictional.

_“I am yours, you are mine  
You are what you are  
You make it hard…”_

“I’m running late. Is it all right if I drive straight from here to work?”

“Sure,” Walt replies, shrugging. “I have nowhere to be.”

“I only have to work three hours… Maybe you could get a kick out of, I dunno, checkin’ out the labs or something.” Walt gives Jesse a small smile.

“I’ll find something to pass the time.”

There’s a little pause, and then: “Why me?”

Walt looks up, not sure whether he heard Jesse speak or just imagined it.

“What?” he asks, all teacher – _speak_ up, _Pinkman! Don’t mumble!_

“Why’d you come back to me? Why me, after three years, after we left on, I don’t know, maybe not the best terms?” Jesse asks, pulling the steering wheel as he speaks. 

“You’re all I have left,” Walt replies bluntly. Jesse’s eyes flare up with surprise – he’s never seen Walt this vulnerable, and he isn’t sure whether he wants to beckon back to old resentment and flick him, watch him crumble, or to protect this dying man.  
He chooses the latter.

“You’ve got a home here as long as you want it,” he says, though his head is singing about his chickens coming home to roost, his old criminal partner in his line of sight reminding him that he’s not Jesse Pinkman, suburban father and college student, but Jesse Pinkman, dropout turned meth dealer… murderer.

But the alternative’s unfathomable. And so he drives.

He spends ten minutes circling the parking lot before he finds an unoccupied space. A moment later he’s out, leading Mr. White along and heading towards Admissions.

He opens the door and they walk inside the first office, entering to a chorus of two young woman exclaiming greetings. 

The first is an African-American girl, a bit stocky, with curly ebony hair and a half-smile, who is flanked by a slightly older, tall and slim girl, (in her mid-twenties, Walt figures) with very short black hair with bright red streaks. 

“Hi, Jesse,” the second girl says. “Who’s your friend?”

“Gabby, Shaina, this is my friend, Mr. White. Do you think either of you should show him to the library?”

“Sure, I will,” Shaina volunteers. “I’ll give him the grand tour.” She leads Walt off in the direction of the library, as Gabby waves to Jesse.

“Okay, what’s that all about?” she teases. “He’s your friend, but he’s ‘Mr. White’?”

“My old teacher,” Jesse explains, picking up a pack of papers. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“Doesn’t sound that complicated to me,” Gabby teases, “I don’t hang out with my old teachers, though.” Jesse smiles wryly.

“I don’t think most people do,” he replies, sticking his hands in his pockets. “You probably did better in school than I did, though. Back in, what, Nebraska?” Gabby mock-sighs and grabs a stack of brochures off the table.

“North Dakota. But close,” she tells him.

“Okay, okay, North Dakota. Whatever. But you stayed in, I dropped out.”

“Don’t down yourself, Jesse. We’re both doing the non-trad thing. There’s no shame in it. You still looking for people for that house you’re renting, by the way?” Jesse perks up.

“Yeah, you interested? I thought you were moving in with that girl from Drexel, though.” Gabby whirls a finger around her head.

“She’s psychotic. And an alcoholic. And an amateur taxidermist. Not happening.”

***  
“And ending up at the library,” Shaina finishes with a smile. “That’s basically the whole campus, except for a few buildings down that way.” She gestures. “But, y’know, chem teacher, you said? Basically it’s just Beury and Barton you’d be interested in. Are you applying for a teaching position?” Walt’s eyes open a little as he lifts up his head.

“I… No, just visiting.”

“Too bad. Old Man Fiscus – I mean, Dr. Fiscus – he teaches, well, taught, Organic, he ran out on us and accepted a position at UMass Boston. Now, they have a _month_ to find a replacement for the spring – I mean, it’s already November! The chair, Dr. Chang, she’s so pissed. Where’d you go for undergrad? Do you have a Master’s?”

“Uh, Caltech. And – yeah, a Master’s in Organic.”

“You should apply. Otherwise, well, there’s this weird guy who adjuncts sometimes, but he’s a total last ditch effort. Everyone hates him.”

“I spent the last twenty years teaching high school, then got fired from that and have been unemployed for the past three years,” Walt fires back bluntly. To his surprise, Shaina looks completely unruffled. 

“Not unemployed – underemployed! Isn’t that what they say in the trade school commercials? And, okay, maybe I’m biased, but I have to take Organic next semester and I’d rather have a professor who knows what he’s doing.”

“And you know that of me – how, exactly?”

Shaina shrugs.

“I figure anyone who could teach Jesse anything has got to have some skills.”


	7. Chapter 7

_“Tearing yourself away from me now  
You are free and I am crying…”_

While Jesse drives them home, Walt considers the odd job offer. Was the girl just blowing smoke? Does he even want the job if she wasn’t? Does he want to spend his last year chasing down students to get them to do their organic homework?  
Jesse walks into the house, Walt following, and collapses on the couch.

“Long day?” Walt asks, sitting down next to him. As he leans against the couch, he can feel his chest seize up ever so slightly, then contract; again, now, a little worse, now, and he swallows, looking back to Jesse for the younger man’s answer.

“Are you okay?” Jesse asks quietly. He should have remembered; _Jesse knows the signs, his aunt – shit._ What reason does he have to lie anymore? He squints his eyes shut, not wanting to see pity on Jesse’s face, and shakes his head. Before his eyes have opened again, he feels the younger man’s hands on his shoulders. He flinches slightly at the physical contact – jeez, how long has it been since, since anyone touched him? – and Jesse whispers, “It’s okay, relax, it’s okay, you’re okay, Mr. White. Everything’s okay.” His voice is filled with a gentleness Walt wasn’t expecting and isn’t used to, and he slowly allows himself to drift into the voice, feel the pain abide – for now. 

“Have you been to someone here in town? A doctor, I mean?”

Walt smiles wryly and opens his eyes. Skyler would have already been on the phone, making the appointment.

“No.”

“We could check into Temple Hospital, see if they have anyone?” Jesse suggests, his hand not moving from Walt’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe tomorrow.” Jesse nods, acquiescing, and looks at his hand, not moving it quite yet. It’s as if he’s afraid that if he lets go now, Mr. White will vanish, cease to exist. Walt can feel the electric desperation in the touch and wonders if there’s something else there, some other urge, some other need.

Walt seizes up again before he can complete the thought; he leans forward into a coughing fit, his hand rising to his mouth to see specs of blood again – hasn’t he already been through this once? But there are Jesse’s hands again, over his back, careful and gentle, soothing – Walt turns his head and presses his lips to the younger man’s, and now Jesse is the one freezing, in shock.

He doesn’t break away, but instead allows Walt to draw back, Jesse’s blue eyes, so blue, blue like chlorine, like aqua, like something Walt can’t name, and he doesn’t speak, only stares. 

“I’m sorry,” Walt cuts in quickly, “I don’t know where that came from.” Jesse reaches up with one limber finger and touches his own lower lip, then lets it curl into a smile.

“Well – I don’t, either,” he replies, “Did you want to do that? Did you think that’s what I’m after? I’m not that lonely, Mr. White. I don’t need you kissing me.”

“I don’t know what it was. Just, I don’t know, your hands on me…” Walt stammers, bitter to be the one with a loss for words, for Jesse to be questioning him. 

“Yeah, well, I used to do that for my aunt when she got sick – never got that reaction,” Jesse retorts.

“Well, I apologize for misunderstanding.” Walt’s voice sounds so elitist and condescending that Jesse has to burst out laughing.

“Why make everything like that? Why can’t you ever just say shit straight out, Mr. White? I opened my door and let you in and you still haven’t told me why you’re really back except that you’re dying and I’m all you have. Are you into me? Is that it?” He throws up his hands. “I’m not going to throw you out if that’s it, y’know, but you need to tell me. I’m goddamned tired of having to find out shit on my own, Mr. White. I’m too old for surprises. I just want to know.”

“I don’t know, Jesse.” Mr. White’s hands are shaking now, and Jesse feels a pang of sympathy.

“Listen. It’s okay. Just be honest with me.” Jesse extends one hand and gently grasps Walt’s wrist. “Do you… want me?”

Walt nods, closes his eyes and gasps as Jesse’s lips meet his again. Jesse breathes into Walt’s mouth, and the older man imagines Jesse blowing air into his damaged lungs, lengthening Walt’s life and shaving years off his own; it’s a strange thought but a morbidly comforting one in a way Walt doesn’t really want to examine. His tongue meets Jesse’s and they press against one another; Walt can taste the ash in Jesse’s mouth ( _he stills smokes_ ) and he wonders how it can taste so sickly sweet.   
Jesse breaks the kiss, breathing furiously and gasping for air, staring at Walt and swallowing hard.

“Do you want to…” he begins, gesturing up the stairs.

“Do you?” Walt counters, and Jesse laughs wryly again.

“I don’t know. Yes. Yeah. No. This is too weird. You’re back – and dying – and kissing me.” Jesse flops back on the couch and runs one fingertip over his lip, as if unable to believe it. “I don’t know if I need this now. My life is going fine.”  
“Seems that way.”

“But then there’s… you.” Jesse swallows and drags a hand over his face. “And us. We keep ending up together, one way or another. Maybe it’s some cosmic… fate, or something. I just… not now.” Jesse closes his eyes and adds, maybe not quite meaning to say it aloud, “But if not now… We’ll miss our chance.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“This does not mean I don't love you  
I do, that's forever,   
Yes and for always…” _

“Then let’s do it.” Walt whispers the words, not looking up at Jesse – what the hell is this sudden shyness, he wonders, it’s a boggling thing, the great Heisenberg flushing like a kid with a crush, like he’s the dorky lab geek fawning over Skyler again and who is Jesse, anyway? Even with his nice house and fancy clothes he’s still the kid who’d throw paper airplanes in his class and thought Funyons had nutritional value.

“Do what?” Jesse presses. “If this is gonna happen – if this is what you really mean – I’m not gonna play fuck-buddy with you, Mr. White. I mean… we were teacher and student for a year, partners for a year… if we’ve only got a year, we better put a name on it and it better be something real. I don’t want to have some murky fucked-up sexual thing going on. We’ve gotta be – something. Especially if Brock is ever gonna find out.” Jesse’s finger twitches. “And as much as we might try and hide he, he’s gonna find out.”

“So… okay. What do you want us to be?”

“A relationship. Lovers.” The words seem weird to Walt, coming from Jesse’s mouth. He keeps wondering when Jesse gained this new maturity – then the younger man will toss in a “like” or a “yo” and Walt will feel… familiar again.

“Okay… You – mean – public?” Jesse shakes his head. 

“No. Not… right away, at least. This might be a bad idea. Maybe we’ll… do stuff and decide we hate it. I don’t want… the only person I’d want to know – if we’re sure – is Brock. I’m not going to lie to him.” Jesse swallows; there are much worse things Brock could find out about him.

“Do you want to go… figure this out?” Walt asks.

“If you really feel something.”

“Do you?” Jesse pauses a long time, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah.”

Jesse takes his hands out of his pockets and grips Walt’s arm in his, silently leading him upstairs and into Jesse’s bedroom.   
Walt looks around, seeing the room – seeing Jesse, as he’s become, for the first time. 

He doesn’t know if he’s proud of nostalgic, wistful, as he stares at his former student, watching as Jesse strips off his shirt, looking at how the boy’s lanky frame has filled out a little in a way that makes him look much less awkward.

Jesse reaches out and begins to unbutton Walt’s shirt. He leans in, pressing his lips to Walt’s again in a comforting, soft kiss with an odd undercurrent, one of being in control in a way he never used to be.

Walt doesn’t want him to be so in control. He gently shoves Jesse back towards the bed, which is off to the left of the room, before pushing him down, pinning him and kissing him, now with vigor he didn’t know he could still feel.

Jesse’s eyes widen and he accepts eagerly, making Walt convinced that Jesse was telling the truth – the girls really must have been just friends. He opens his mouth, lets Walt search him with his tongue, letting out a little whimper of want.  
Jesse reaches down and undoes Walt’s wants, giving the man a small tinge of uncertainty for the first time since they began – Jesse probably will find Walt’s current state of being decidedly unerotic, but Walt decides he doesn’t care. Breaking the kiss, he helps Jesse pull off the khakis and turns to undo Jesse’s jeans, gripping them and pulling before the younger man can think better of all this and call “stop”.

“Do you have – something?” Walt asks quietly, and Jesse nods, turning his head slightly.

“Bathroom… medicine cabinet.”

Walt scurries up, runs to Jesse’s bathroom, and opens the cabinet quickly, convinced the moment will break and Jesse will change his mind, or the phone will ring with urgent business that Jesse needs to attend to in his new, better life, leaving him with no time for Walter White.

He grabs the tube as soon as he spots it, and he rushes back into the bedroom, where Jesse is lying comfortably on his back, his arms twisted behind his head as he smiles.

“Let’s do this,” Jesse urges, unknotting his hands before pulling off his boxers; he stops Walt dead in his tracks, and he looks over the younger man a moment, drinking in the tattoos, the scars, the curves and contours of his body.

It seems wrong, somehow, more wrong than the criminal partnership ever did, but maybe that’s just because this Jesse is still new to him. He’s kept his head shaved and it still projects that hard-won maturity, the one Walt was never quite ready to see.  
Walt pulls off the rest of his clothes, a pair of boxers and shoes and socks he hadn’t even realized he had kept on, and approaches Jesse in slow strides. The younger man’s eyes flash with impatience – the younger Jesse would have beckoned, “Hurry up, bitch,” but this one just says it with his eyes, with one penetrating look.

When Walt is close enough, Jesse grips his shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss, biting his lip and running his tongue over his teeth. Walt considers that it must have been as long for Jesse as it’s been for him, but the thought’s cut off as Jesse breaks the kiss and gestures to the little tube with clear want in his eyes.

“Fuck me,” he whispers, and Walt can’t take his eyes off his as he shakily pops the cap and lathers some of the gel on to his fingers.

“Are you sure, Jesse?” Walt asks, even as he reaches down and begins to tease one finger over Jesse’s entrance.

“Yeah, but the next time, I’m on top,” Jesse replies. _Well, he’s already planning a next time. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?,_ Walt thinks to himself, trying not to think too hard about the rest of that statement. He focuses instead on sliding in the first finger, receiving a little gasp and groan from Jesse “Yeah,” Jesse repeats, closing his eyes, and Walt isn’t sure whether it’s appreciative of the situation, or a reminder of the demand that he’s just made for “next time”. 

“That okay?” Walt whispers, and Jesse nods, keeping his eyes closed. He slides in a second finger and feels Jesse clench around him. He pauses and slows the intrusion, watching with a sort of wonder as the younger man relaxes his muscles and accepts him.

“Now, go for it now,” Jesse whispers, “I’m about to lose my nerve if you don’t.” At that, Walt withdraws his fingers and squeezes more lube over his hand, before stroking his cock which by now – he’s just noticing, somehow, distracted as he was by Jesse – is throbbing, rock hard.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be!” Jesse exclaims, chuckling nervously – his words are cut off as Walt positions himself at Jesse’s entrance and slides in, but even as Jesse groans out and grabs a hold of Walt’s wrist, he’s still chuckling. “Ow… Fuck, shit, ow,” he murmurs. “That hurts like a bitch.”

“Then why are you laughing?” Walt inquires, leaning in to nip at Jesse’s neck.

“Fuck if I know,” Jesse hisses back. As he releases his muscles slowly, Walt pushes up and further inside, the heat and tightness making him wonder vaguely why he has never tried this before – then again, he can’t even conceive of having presented the idea to either Skyler or Gretchen without having something thrown at him.

Jesse opens his eyes and stares at Walt, cutting him out of whatever thought process he had been attempting to have.

“You’re tight,” Walt grunts instead.

“Y’think?” Jesse retorts. “You’re pretty fucking big, there.”

“Does it hurt? Walt inquires, thrusting slowly and, he hopes, gently, but control is hard won.

“Only a bit,” Jesse replies, “I’ll be fine. Ow f…” He’s cut off as he gives a little squeak of pleasure. “Um, do _that_ again, shit!”

“I will,” Walt replies, feeling more power and pride than he has since he took out Gus three years ago. He thrusts again, and Jesse lets out a strangled gasp, squeezing his eyes tightly again. 

“Fuck, yeah, Mr. White, do _that_ for fucking ever,” Jesse grunts, reaching out and grabbing the bedpost, as if to keep from flying off of it. Walt increases his thrusts, going faster and harder as he feels his climax rising. He finds that he wants nothing else in the world other than to fuck Jesse until he’s speechless.

And he seems to be succeeding at that; Jesse has been reduced to grunts, squeaks and cries as he digs his fingers into Walt’s wrists and then to claw at his back, and Walt’s not saying much either, other than gasping Jesse’s name until he feels it all become too much and he screams Jesse’s name and cums with what feels like the power of a some kind of World War II artillery cannon.

He pulls out of Jesse and is ready to collapse from the effort when the younger man, still catching his breath, raises his head. 

“Fucking touch me! Come on, goddamnit, you are not gonna leave me hanging…”

It’s the old, impatient Jesse, still quite alive under all the maturity, and Walt chuckles in surprise and reaches out to grab Jesse’s cock between his palms. A few strokes later, and the younger man releases with a gasp and a grunt, and Walt finds himself too tired to do much else other than wipe his hand off on the pants nearest to him on the bed – they’re probably Jesse’s, come to think of it, but oh well.

Jesse moves to lie on his side as he stares at the clock. 

“We have two hours until I have to get up,” he tells Walt. “I’m not moving unless I have to.” He snuggles further into the bed and yawns. He’s silent a long moment and Walt scoots closer, wondering if he’s fallen asleep.

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Jesse replies, rolling over to look at him. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what you said that one time. About dying in a perfect moment.” Walt sucks in his breath. That day with the fly, the day he’d almost said way too much. One of many times.

“What about it?”

“D’you still believe that? ‘Cause if you died in your ‘perfect moment’, then we wouldn’t have this one right now.” Jesse looks at his and shrugs. “I don’t think there’s a perfect moment. There’s just a bunch of moments and what you get done in them. Good or bad. If I died when I was twenty, Jane would still be alive. Her father would be, too. All those people on the planes. But if I died today…” He swallows. “Then Brock’s got no one. So there’s no perfect moment.”

“I don’t know,” Walt replies, “I don’t even really remember saying that. I say things, sometimes. They don’t always mean something.”

“I know you. Nothing you say means – nothing. There’s always some point to it.”

Walt shrugs.

“Well, okay, if you’re gonna be inscrutable again.”

“Inscrutable?” Walt asks with a snort.

“Well, yeah, Mr. White,” Jesse retorts with a grin, “I can has an edumacation now! I can use big words!” He reaches out and shoves Walt playfully, before turning serious again. “All right, we should… talk. Set down ground rules for this, if it’s gonna work.”

“Okay, well, what do you suggest?” Walt asks, shifting to sit up and look at Jesse as he speaks. 

“Rule one – Brock always comes first. If this ever isn’t okay with him, it’s over. You gotta treat Brock with respect. I love him, you gotta at least respect him.” Jesse groans as he sits up as well, dragging a hand over his face. “Going off rule one, just as a coda or something, if Brock ever needs to come in here to sleep, you gotta get out and go sleep in the guest room. ‘Cause that’s a little too weird for me. And last rule, I don’t care how you talk to me in private, but you can’t call me an idiot or anything in front of Brock. I don’t want him… absorbing that.” Jesse pauses and thinks. “That’s it, basically. You okay with all of that?”

“Yes,” Walt replies.

“Any of your own?”

Walt crosses his fingers and places them in his lap.

“Don’t make decisions for me. Don’t browbeat me into decisions – don’t…” he pauses. “If things get bad, don’t remember me like…”

“Like vulnerable?” Jesse prompts. “That ship’s sailed, Mr. White. We’ve both seen each other at our lowest. Okay, another rule – you can’t run out if things get bad and your pride kicks you in the ass. But no, I won’t make decisions for you. You’re your own person.”

“And one more thing, Jesse.”

“Yeah?”

“If we do ever go… public, you need to start calling me Walt.”

Jesse scratches his nose and considers it.

“Maybe.”


	9. Chapter 9

_“I am yours, you are mine  
You are what you are  
You make it hard…”_

At three o’clock, Jesse leaves Walt alone to drive to the Main Line in order to pick up Brock. Walt spends the time snuggling up on Jesse’s couch, feeling strangely content but not knowing whether he should be.

A little over an hour later, he hears the door unlock and the tapping, pattering footsteps of Brock, followed by the slower, more measured footsteps that must belong to Jesse.

“Can I go over Adam and Callie’s?” Walt hears Brock ask, before he slowly rises from his spot and begins to get dressed, pulling his boxers, pants and shirt back on slowly.

“After you finish your homework.”

“Okay,” Brock replies, and Walt smiles wistfully, hearing the same reluctance in the voice that he recalls from his own son at that age. _Wait ‘til Jesse’s kid is fifteen or sixteen and hates him,_ he thinks. 

Walt finishes dressing and walks down the steps and turns the corner to find Jesse and Brock leaned over the dining room table, a textbook and notebook between them.

“Okay, so, fractions,” Jesse begins. “You need to reduce this, right?”

“Yeah,” Brock replies. “Find out what goes into it.”

“All right, we’ve got this one – 9/27 plus 15/36.” Jesse scrunches his face up and looks over at Walt.

“Isn’t reducing factions a little advanced for…”

“Third grade,” Jesse agrees. “I barely remember how to do this stuff! My college class is all trig.”

“You’re in Trig?” Walt questions.

“Yeah, I passed the… placement test,” Jesse replies with a shrug.

“Then needless to say, you do know how to do ‘this stuff’.”

Jesse rolls his eyes.

“All right, so what goes into both 27 and 36?”

“Three,” Brock chimes.

“Something bigger than that, too.”

Brock considers it, dragging a hand over his face.

“Nine,” he answers.

“Yep, nine – good job!”

Walt watches them, keeping silent, but he has a question now, one he’ll wait until they’re alone to ask.

***

When Brock has finished his sheet of fractions and has scurried off to “Adam and Callie’s” (the kids in the apartment at the end of the block, Jesse explains), Walt approaches the younger man, hands clasped in front of him as he’s deep in thought.

“Jesse,” he begins. Jesse looks up, cocking his head to the side, bidding Walt to go on. “What did you take last year? At Temple?”

“Uh… An Art class. History. English. Chemistry.”

“Which Chemistry?”

“Uh… General Chemistry. I signed up for it by mistake.”

“What about the next semester?”

“Uh.. okay… Another Art class. Algebra and Trig. Psychology.”

“That’s only three classes.”

“…General Chemistry II,” Jesse mumbles.

“And what did you get those semesters?” Walt asks, and Jesse mumbles a reply. “Sorry, didn’t get that.”

“I said,” Jesse hisses, “A 4.0. I got an A in everything.” Jesse shoves his hands into his pockets.

Walt considers not pressing the issue and only smirking, but then Jesse flips him off.

“So why would I call you an idiot?” he continues a second later.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Jesse retorts, and walks into the kitchen.

***

The next day, Jesse leaves early to drop off Brock and then head to class. Walt isn’t able to pry out of him what he’s actually taking this semester, but a short root through Jesse’s mail, which he feels only moderately guilty about, shows a few more Art classes, along with College Physics. The spying leads him to consider applying for the adjunct position again, and he figures that maybe he should give Dr. Chang a call rather than continue to snoop around Jesse’s things. 

A short perusal of the Temple website later, he takes out his cell phone and dials the office number for a Dr. Lenora Chang. To his surprise, the phone is picked up on the first ring.

“Dr. Chang’s office.”

“Hi, um, this is Walter White. I was calling because – uh, heh, I heard something about – an adjunct position for Organic Chemistry, but I can’t find anything about it on the website.” Walt quickly scrolls through the site to make sure that’s true.

“Oh! Hey. Yes, I haven’t had a chance to put the ad up, yet. Shaina Harrison mentioned that she talked to you – your name sounds so familiar.” There is a short pause. “Wait, you’re not the Walter White of Gray Matter, are you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Walt replies dryly.

“Well, okay – I didn’t know you lived in the area! Well, listen, put in an application and I’ll try and have you in for an interview this week. Does that work for you?”

“Works great for me.”

“I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.”

“Likewise.”

“Have a good day!” 

Walt echoes the goodbye and hangs up the phone, crossing his fingers together. Well, he’s accomplished something today, at least.

***

“I’m scared about the conference thing tomorrow,” Brock admits when Jesse tucks him in for the night.

“How come? It’s nothing to be afraid of,” Jesse replies. “I had them when I was in school, too.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be good enough,” Brock says, and Jesse swallows hard, freezing a moment before leaning in to kiss Brock on the forehead.

“Hey, listen, Brock,” he tells the boy emphatically. “You will always be good enough, whether you get all A’s or A’s and B’s or whether you fail every single subject. I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to leave like Mom did,” Brock admits quietly, curling up under his blanket. Jesse gently pulls it back and moves closer.

“That has nothing to do with you, sweetheart. And I’m not going anywhere. Where would I go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nowhere, that’s where. I’m going to stay right here, with you. Forever. Because you,” he reaches out and pokes Brock’s nose gently with his finger, “Are my son and I love you.” Brock smiles and lets out a little giggle. “Yeah, that’s right. And nothing will change that. I’m always going to be here.”

“You’re not ever gonna die?” Brock pipes up.

“Whoa, when did dying come into it?” Jesse inquires, his eyes going wide. “But, no, I’m never gonna die – ‘cause… let me tell you a secret.” He lowers his voice. “I’m actually a Time Lord.”

“A Time Lord?”

“Yep. Time Lord. One of only two left of my kind – or was it three? Anyway.”

“Then where’s your TARDIS?” Brock fires back. Jesse grins widely.

“It’s a Chevy Monte Carlo… low-rider. A red one. It’s in a shop back in New Mexico until you’re old enough to travel with me.” Brock giggles.

“That’s just a story.”

“A-ha, well, we’ll see!” Jesse declares. He kisses Brock again and hugs him tightly. “I love you, Brock. Sweet dreams.” He leans over and turns the lamp off, sighing as he walks to the door.

“I love you, too, Jesse.”

Jesse smiles against the darkness and walks out Brock’s door, down the staircase and into his living room.

“Brock’s down for the night,” he announces, sitting down on the sofa next to Walt. “I have that Parent-Teacher Conference tomorrow. Brock’s worried he’s not good enough. I just – damn, I am not gonna be my parents. I want him to do well, but, fuck, he’s _nine_ – if he gets a B instead of an A, who’s gonna care when he’s in college?”

“Trials of Parenthood,” Walt replies sympathetically. “Wait until he’s sixteen and wants to change his name.” Jesse cocks an eyebrow. “Flynn. My son went by Flynn.”

Jesse lets out a snort.

“Yeah, but you a least knew at the end of the day that your son is yours. I have nightmares about Brock’s biological father rolling in and trying to make off with him.”

“What’d he say about you adopting Brock?” Walt inquires.

“Nothing,” Jesse replies. “Nobody could find him. The court let me adopt him on the basis of ‘biological parents’ whereabouts unknown’. Andrea was fifteen and he was twenty or something, so… yeah, I don’t think he wanted to pop up and get charged with something, or even be involved.”

“So his reappearance is… unlikely.”

Jesse smiles and looks down at his feet.

“Yeah.”

“You never wanted a kid of ‘your own’, so to speak?”

Jesse shrugs.

“Sometimes I think about that, like, what it’d look like if me and Jane had had a kid, or me and Andrea… but the only face I ever come up with is Brock’s.”


	10. Chapter 10

_“Something inside is telling me that  
I've got your secret.  
Are you still listening?”_

The next day proceeds as Walt has come to label a typical day in the Pinkman-White household. Jesse and Brock go to class, while Walt compiles his CV and removes Elliot Schwartz from his list of References, as well as Principal Carmen, and replaces them with some other people he knew in graduate school but hasn’t talked to in years.

After the Pinkmans return home, Jesse drops Brock off next door at Donya’s, not stating a reason but perhaps betraying a lack of willingness to leave Walt alone with Brock. It’s all as well for Walt, who still can’t shake a sense that the boy will walk up to him, point his finger and announce that he _knows_ him, in multiple senses of the word.

Jesse drives to the Haywood School, dressed in a suit and tie, and makes his way inside the building, before approaching Room 214, where the conference is being held.

“Mr. Pinkman?” a friendly voice inquires, and a middle-aged woman with short, dusty blonde hair approaches.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jesse replies, extending his hand. “And you’re Miss … Sharons?”

“Yes. It’s… a pleasure to get to meet Brock’s father,” she tells him and shakes his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, too,” Jesse responds awkwardly, and he gets the feeling of being a little kid playing dress-up in his suit.

“Now, Brock is a great child, but I had some… concerns.”

“Concerns?” Jesse inquires, and Miss Sharons looks at him, extending her arms to gesture emphatically.

“When he puts his mind to it, he’s a good student, but he seems to daydream a great deal. He also doesn’t make friends easily with the other children. He keeps to himself.”

“Okay,” Jesse acknowledges.

“And I’m also a little concerned about the situation at home.”

“Oh?” Jesse asks.

“Brock’s mentioned that his mother doesn’t… live with you.”

“Yes?” Jesse prompts, sticking his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

“And that can be a hard situation for a child to be in.”

“Yeah.”

“And especially at Brock’s age, he really needs a mother figure in his life.”

Jesse cocks his head to the side.

“I’m sorry, but what are you getting at? He has a mother. Andrea is in New Mexico, taking care of family that cannot leave and who can’t travel. She loves Brock and Brock loves her, and besides, I don’t know that our family situation is necessarily any of your business… with all due respect, ma’am.” Jesse clenches his nails into his palms and struggles to keep his voice calm, despite the irritation smoldering within him.

“Oh, if I’m out of line… I apologize,” Miss Sharons counters quickly, “I just feel like Brock might benefit from talking to someone. A counselor at school, maybe, or… out of school.”

“Brock’s fine,” Jesse retorts.

“Well, yes, you may see it that way, but he doesn’t quite fit in… Maybe if he was around more children who shared his… cultural background,” she begins.

“Brock lives in one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world,” Jesse replies, loosening his grip on his palms and taking his hands out, locking eyes with the teacher. “Brock speaks fluent English _and_ Spanish and has friends living on his block from five different countries. Maybe Brock doesn’t ‘fit in’ because most of the people who send their kids here are stuck-up…” he pauses and controls his language, “jerks. My parents raised me to believe that it’s what you accomplish that matters, not whether you have a nice car or a big yacht. If Brock wants to keep to himself, let him – he’s fine.” He sticks his hands back in his pockets. “We’re done here?” Before the teacher can reply, Jesse turns and walks out the door.

***

“What’d she say?” Brock asks when Jesse picks him up later in the day.

“She said you’re a great kid, Brock,” Jesse replies, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. “I’m really proud of you.”  
After Brock is asleep, however, he lets out his annoyance to Walt.

“She’s sticking her nose into me and Andrea! It’s none of her damn business! Hell, I actually said something positive about my _parents_. What the hell?”

“Your parents aren’t all bad, Jesse. They seemed perfectly nice when I met them at _your_ Parent-Teacher conferences.”

“You’re reminding me about how weird this is. Stop, please.”

“Okay, okay,” Walt tells him.

“Ugh, well, whatever,” Jesse says finally, “Six months and then next year he’ll have a different teacher, right?” He swallows as he realizes that Mr. White may not be around to see six months.

***

“Can I take you up on what I mentioned before?” Jesse inquires when the two are lying in bed later that night.

“What do you mean?” Walt asks, turning around. He tries to connect Jesse’s words, but the haze of sleep has begun to overtake him, so he’s left with only a vague notion of what the younger man is referring to.

“You know,” Jesse begins cheekily, blushing against the darkness. “Being on top and all. Throes of passion, all that.” Mr. White shoots Jesse a look which betrays his reluctance.

“I kinda need it,” Jesse tries to explain. “I mean… I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do, but…”

“I… well, sure, I guess,” Walt replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just haven’t ever… have you? I mean… what you’re suggesting.”

“Yeah, I’ve…” Jesse begins, “I mean… not with a guy, just uh, uh huh, yeah…” He breaks into a bashful grin.

“Well, if you know what you’re doing…” Walt begins, and Jesse shoves him playfully.

“I promise I’ll be careful. No way I want to explain to your doctor that I broke you or something.”

“Oh God,” Walt exclaims. “I wouldn’t even go in.” Jesse bursts out laughing as Walt rolls back over, facing away.

“It won’t be an issue, I promise!” He curls into Walt’s back and slowly leans in, placing a gentle kiss on Walt’s neck. The older man turns to face Jesse, giving a reluctant smile – he can’t shake the thought, however, that Jesse _knows_ , knows everything and that giving him the upper hand will end very badly for him. Then again, Jesse has never failed him yet, the only one who hasn’t, so he acquiesces. 

“How do you want me?” he inquires, a gruff tone only barely hiding the dueling emotions of trepidation and want.

“Lie on your side, in case you start coughing,” Jesse replies after a moment. “I’ll be right back.”


	11. Chapter 11

_“Fear is the lock, and laughter the key to your heart  
And I love you…”_

Walt watches Jesse get up and go to the bathroom, hears the door click open and closed, the careful attempts to be as quiet as possible coming through in Jesse’s cautious footsteps.

When Jesse returns, he has the familiar tube in his hand and a shy, excited smile on his face.

“You okay? You still want to do this?” he asks. 

“Yes, Jesse, I’m sure.”

At that, Walt hears Jesse sigh before he lies down next to Walt again, slowly curling against the older man with the tube in his hand. He trails one hand over Walt’s back, before slowly pulling his shirt forward and then off, tossing it into a corner of the room before pressing his lips to Walt’s again, not wanting to rush this and still very much unsure even if Walt says he _is_ sure. 

Walt reaches down and pulls off his pants, trying to spurn Jesse on. It works; Jesse’s eyes light up in excitement as he runs his hand over Walt’s back again, down to his thigh, and over his ass slowly, as if in an attempt to acclimate the older man.

He quickly pulls off the T-shirt that he had discarded the suit and tie for, followed by his sweatpants and boxers. His hands begin to shake with anticipation and worry, fear that he’s going to go about this wrong and injure Walt somehow – the idea of Mr. White almost at his mercy isn’t entirely a new one (“Jesse, you need to help me, they’re going to kill me”, _no, don’t think about that_ ) but it’s unsettling and just doesn’t feel right. Mr. White has always been the one in control… almost always.  
Jesse slowly clicks up one finger as he tries to clear his mind of everything except the task at hand. The careful, meticulous task, a perfect formula.

He slides the first finger in, painstakingly, slowly, scrunching his face up in focus, care, and a bit of sympathetic discomfort.

“Everything okay?” he inquires softly, and Walt nods, turning his head a bit uncomfortably to properly lock eyes with Jesse, who experimentally curls his finger before lubing up a second. He feels as if he should keep talking to the other man, and so he does, coaxing as he slides in the second digit, somehow coming off more comforting and less condescending. “Here’s the second, okay, just careful, let it – okay, good, good… You’re awesome.” He slowly guides the fingers to where Walt’s prostate must be, and he gets a trill of pleasure from the older man, not quite a word but more a yell and a gasp. 

“Sh—Jesse…”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Jesse asks, swelling up with pride. Being able to make Walt writhe and twitch is better than anything he could want to do to harm him, and he doesn’t want to harm him ever, not really – the power switch is benevolent; at least, he wants to believe it is.

“Jesse, yes, hell yes, that feels good,” Walt babbles, digging his fingers into the sheets.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Jesse asks softly, kissing Walt’s neck and nipping at it gently.

Walt breathes out – he’s not sure, but he nods.

“Go ahead, Jesse.”

Jesse bites his lip and strips off the remainder of his clothing, before slicking up his hands and stroking them along his cock, trying to steady his breathing. He positions himself at Walt’s entrance and wraps his arms around the older man, holding him protectively.

“Take a deep breath, then let it go, I’m gonna go in on the exhale,” Jesse instructs, parroting the instructions he’d gotten for a short-lived piercing years ago.

Walt breathes in and holds it, closing his eyes before letting go – _let it happen, let Jesse take the reins_ – and exhaling. A second later, Jesse is pushing in, whispering for him to relax, and both are lost in the second, the connection. At the realization that it’s uncomfortable but doesn’t hurt, Walt lets himself go slack and untenses his fingers around the sheet that he’s still clinging to. Whatever he was afraid would happen hasn’t, and Jesse is placing kisses and little bites along his back and neck. Walt opens his eyes and begins to meet Jesse’s thrusts, helping him, and Jesse reaches around and begins to gently stroke his cock.  
“Jesse,” Walt gasps out as the thrusting slowly increases and he can tell the younger man’s getting close; he’s not sure if he can last, but wants to, the moment is too pure, too electric to let go.

“Everything okay?” Jesse asks, squeezing his hand around the other man’s cock and wondering at how natural it feels to be doing this.

“Fine, Jesse,” Walt replies, squinching his eyes shut tight. “I don’t think I’m lasting much longer.”

“Me neither,” Jesse rasps out, giving three more thrusts and then releasing hard as he tries out the name he’s been instructed to use. “Walt,” he gasps, but it’s still odd, not quite right.

Walt doesn’t reply to it, instead focusing on Jesse’s touch as he loses control and cums over the younger man’s hand, sucking in a breath before letting it out in a cough. Jesse uses his other hand to rub Walt’s back, before wiping the other on a sheet, making a mental note to clean them at some point.

Walt controls the coughing fit after a few moments, before he turns to curl around Jesse, thrilling at the other man’s hand on his back.

“You okay?” Jesse asks, running a finger down Walt’s spine.

“Better than,” Walt admits.

“You’re in safe hands with me,” Jesse whispers. He closes his eyes and snuggles closing to his former mentor.  
They lie together in silence for a long while as Walt falls asleep and Jesse half-does, before the shrill ring of the phone cuts into their peace.

“Call from Pinkman, A,” the phone recites, and Jesse jerks up his head and opens his eyes wide.

“Andrea?” Walt asks sleepily.

“No,” Jesse explains, “Andrea’s number comes up as Cantillo. The only A. Pinkman is my _dad_.”

“Hey, you’ve reached the Pinkman household. Leave your name, number, and reason for your call at the beep,” Jesse’s recorded voice says.

“This’ll be interesting,” Jesse tells Walt, trying to calm his nerves. He takes a deep breath and waits.


	12. Chapter 12

_“I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are  
You make it hard  
And you make it hard…”_

“Jesse, this is your mother. I’m just calling to…” Jesse hops out of bed and grabs the phone off the cradle, hitting the green button.

“Uh, hey, hi, Mom,” he says, swallowing hard. The only reason they’d really be calling him would be bad news, wouldn’t it?

“Hi, Jesse! I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, I mean, I just realized it must be nine or ten in Pennsylvania.”

“No, hey, I’m good. What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in, well…”

“Three years,” Mrs. Pinkman finishes. “I just… I, well, I found out a little while ago that you’re up in Philadelphia now, and… your father and I, and Jake, were thinking of… coming up and seeing you, if that’s okay.”

“I… yeah, I guess so,” Jesse replies, trying to put the words in order in his sleep-dazed head. “I… when?”

“Maybe for… Thanksgiving? I mean, I know it’s not much notice, but…”

“That’s… next week,” Jesse replies, “Sure, I mean, can you get a flight out that soon? I mean, that’s… great. I’d like to see you guys and Jake, I guess I just… you calling out of the blue like this, I was worried something… happened.”

“Oh, dear God, Jesse, no – everyone’s fine. I’m sorry, it just… It is a little out of the blue, I’ve wanted to call for a long time but I didn’t know how it would go.”

“Nah, it’s… wow, it’s fine, just… let me know when your flight is, I’ll drive out and get you guys.”

“And you’re… doing… alright, Jesse?”

“Yeah…” Jesse replies, smiling into the phone. “I think I’m doing okay.”

***

When he gets off the phone, he turns to Walt, who’s been listening, and groans.

“First of all, I need to stop mentioning people, because they always end up freaking calling when I do. What the hell? Secondly, why the hell did I just invite my parents out here?” Jesse drags his hand over his face and climbs back into bed. “Maybe it’ll be a non-issue,” he continues, “Maybe they won’t be able to fly out. But, God, I haven’t seen them in three years. What about you, Mr. White? D’you talk with your parents?”

Walt exhales.

“My mother… not recently… She was my cover story for our little trip in the RV, if you remember – whatever that says. My father died when I was six.”

“No brothers or sisters?” Jesse asks.

“No, just me.”

“That must’ve been rough,” Jesse continues. “How’d your father die?”

“Huntingdon’s,” Walt replies simply.

“Like Thirteen on _House_ ,” Jesse responds automatically, “Isn’t that, like, genetic?”

“Yes, Jesse, but needless to say… I didn’t have it.” Jesse considers what he’s just heard and breathes out.

“Is that why you’re so… obsessed with not being vulnerable?” Walt doesn’t answer, and Jesse continues. “’Cause I can understand that. I was… eighteen, a lot older, but still, when my aunt died. I know how it gets.” He knots his fingers together. “It’s not weak to die. Everybody dies.”

“Yes, but… if you could choose,” Walt begins.

“You’d want a blaze of glory, the lines of battle,” Jesse finishes. “I don’t know if that’d be any better. We’ve been close enough. I’m done with blazes of glory. I think I want to die in my sleep.”

***

Walt e-mails his CV to Dr. Chang the next morning, first thing. Jesse, meanwhile, drives off to Temple, after dropping Brock off.  
He greets his co-workers, wondering if changes in him show in his face, somehow; in his movements.   
While Shaina and Donya are off on a lunch break, he approaches Gabby.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she replies, putting down a stack of papers. “Shoot.”

“Would I be making a huge mistake if I were to get into a relationship with Mr. White?”

Gabby blinks.

“Well, Jesse, that depends. Does he make you feel… happy? Good about yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Jesse replies honestly. “We have kind of a weird history. Like, a _really_ weird history.”

“Jesse, you’re the only person who can decide whether it’s a good idea. I say go for it – if it’s a mistake, then at least you’ll know, instead of waiting years later to say you wish you know what it could’ve been.”

Jesse looks down and swallows.

“Well, what if I said I already did go for it?” Gabby cocks an eyebrow. “And if I complicated matters by inviting my parents to visit next week?” Gabby steps up and looks at Jesse.

“Are you going to tell them about you and Mr. White? Or do you need me to to help you go all ‘La Cage aux Folles’ on them?”

“I don’t know, Gabby… But I’ll let you know.”

***

That night, while Mr. White is off in the computer room, checking to see if there’s news from Dr. Chang, Brock approaches Jesse with a photograph between his fingers, holding it gingerly and carefully.

“Who’s this lady, Jesse?” he inquires, handing the photo to Jesse, who is sitting on the couch and flicking through the channels. Jesse sucks in a breath as he looks it over – it’s a photo of him with his arm around a smiling Jane, a photo taken in front of the Georgia O’Keefe Museum by somebody who Jesse has long since forgotten. In fact, he’s forgotten the photo existed. He must have packed it in his move out of the duplex and not looked at it since.

“Where’d you find this?” Jesse asks, struggling to keep accusation out of his voice and trying to push a non-threatening smile on to his lips and only half-succeeding.

“I was looking at the books in the computer room,” Brock explains quickly, “And there was this, like… old notebook… and this fell out.” He looks a little frightened, as if he’s trying to cover his tracks.

“My old sketchbook,” Jesse realizes, and smiles a little more comfortably at Brock. “It’s okay.” His fingers play over the photo again. “This lady was a very good friend of mine. Her name was Jane. A long time ago, I lived in an apartment that she was renting. We went to this museum… in Santa Fe.”

“What kind of museum?”

“An art museum. She really liked art… She was a tattoo artist.”

“Was she your girlfriend?” Brock asks quietly. Jesse sucks in a breath.

“Yeah, honey, she was my girlfriend.”

“Did you guys break up?”

Jesse shakes his head and extends a hand to hug Brock to him.

“No, she passed away, Brock.”

“What happened?”

Jesse swallows, wondering if nine is way too young to know any of this part of his life. Whether he needs to lie, or sugarcoat it somehow.

“It was an accident. We were both very mixed up back then. We did a lot of things we shouldn’t have done. And there was an accident. Brock,” Jesse begins.

“Yeah?”

“If you or your friends ever… get into anything, like… drugs… or any kind of trouble, promise you’ll tell me?”

“I promise,” Brock replies, looking up at Jesse. “Your friend was pretty.”

“Yeah,” Jesse replies, tussling Brock’s hair. “One day, you’ll fall for a pretty girl, too.”

“Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gross.”


	13. Chapter 13

_“Friday evening, Sunday in the afternoon  
What have you got to lose?”_

“We should go on a date,” Jesse announces the net week. His parents have announced that they will be flying in that Wednesday morning, affording Walt and Jesse three remaining days to themselves, while Brock is in school at least.

“A date?” Walt echoes. “Like where?”

“Out to dinner,” Jesse suggests, “Or how about a movie? How does it work with two guys? Who plans?” Walt shrugs, considering that despite hypothetical gender conventions, Skyler and Jane have probably planned most of their past dates. 

“Why don’t we just go to the movies, see whatever’s playing, and then go to… Red Lobster, or something?”

“There’s none around here,” Jesse replies sadly. “There’s a great Vietnamese place, though. You game?”

“Sure,” Walt replies with a shrug. “You sure you want to go on a _date_? With me, though?”

“When you’d lose your self-esteem, Mr. Ego?” Jesse retorts. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Yeah, except the old and dying part,” Walt replies bitterly, and Jesse snorts.

“What’s happened to you over the past three years? You’re a badass. You know that. We don’t need to get into it but, come on… you’re a chemistry genius, for one.”

“An overqualified, unemployed genius. A lot of good that does me.”

“What about your job offer? Shaina mentioned that she talked you up to Chang.”

“Ah, well, we’ll see,” Walt replies noncommittally.

“Well, let’s get ready,” Jesse says with a sigh. “We’ll try and catch something artsy.”

***

“Mr. White, you are _never_ choosing the movie again,” Jesse announces as they walk out of the theatre. “That movie made me want to kill myself.”

“I didn’t realize it would be _quite_ so depressing,” Walt counters, breaking off a piece of white chocolate and tossing it into his mouth. “I was intrigued by the ghost of the Japanese kamikaze in the description.”

“And you managed to completely miss the teenage chick with cancer? That whole movie was the most depressing… I mean, didn’t you pay attention to what that ticket taker guy said? He said people have walked out, ‘cause it’s so depressing.”

“Told you,” the ticket taker chimes in, overhearing.

“Yes, you did,” Jesse agrees, shooting Walt a knowing look. 

“Yes, well, let’s get to the ‘dinner’ part of ‘dinner and a movie’. I can only hope our food won’t be nearly so depressing.”

“We can only hope.”

***

“So, what is this, exactly, that you ordered?” Walt inquires as he peeks over his rice to gaze quizzically at Jesse’s plate.

“Hell if I know. I just figured I’d find out what it was.” Jesse pokes a piece of what looks to be chicken and scoops it up, shoving it into his mouth. “And, see, it paid off. No idea what it is, but it’s awesome.”

“What are you going to tell your parents?” Walt asks after a moment, and Jesse puts down his fork, picks up his glass of water, and sighs. 

“You mean about us? Nothing, if I can help it.” Jesse raises an eyebrow at Walt. “I’ll just tell them you’re staying with me. They don’t really need to know the rest. I don’t really want to answer the rest of those questions.” He takes a drink of water and then smiles nervously. “I mean, the last time I saw them… yeah. I think they’re surprised I’m not in the ground.”

“You’ve done well for yourself, Jesse,” Walt replies, and Jesse shrugs.

“Forgive me if I don’t necessarily believe that coming from you, after how many times you’ve called me ‘junkie imbecile’ and the rest of it.”

“I was… I wasn’t my best, needless to say.”

“Yeah, you definitely weren’t.”

“Do we have to fight about this now?” Walt gestures to the food. “We’re having a nice dinner.”

“I’m not fighting,” Jesse replies firmly. “But if you don’t want to discuss, that’s fine.”

***

On the drive home, Walt turns to Jesse and inquires, “What made you stay clean this time? I mean, what with everything…”

“You mean with Andrea leaving?” Jesse clarifies. When Walt nods, he shrugs in response. “I couldn’t do that to Brock.” He sighs and clenches his hands around the steering wheel. “Andrea has, as far as I know, gone back to using. The guy she’s with, as far as I know, is no good. He’s a dick. Brock needs a parent who is stable.” He swallows and considers whether to continue, and decides he might as well. “I… that house. Where you sent me that one time. I tried to tell you they had a kid, but you wouldn’t listen.” Walt opens his mouth to speak, but Jesse cuts him off. “A kid living in filth with almost no food, no... stability. And then I think about… worse than that. I think about…” Jesse keeps driving, staring straight ahead. “How I woke up and found Jane.” His voice breaks, but he keeps talking. “What the fuck would I be worth if Brock found me like that? So I don’t touch the shit. None of it. I don’t even drink anymore. Because Brock is always going to wake up to a safe house, with me in my right… state of mind. It’s not gonna happen to him.” He turns and looks at Walt. “If that answers your question.”  
The rest of the ride home is in silence, but Walt can’t help but feel a twinge of regret that Jesse, quite obviously, doesn’t _need_ him, at least not to keep him on the straight and narrow. But did he ever?


	14. Chapter 14

_“Tuesday morning, please be gone I'm tired of you.  
What have you got to lose?”_

Janet, Adam, and Jake Pinkman fly in on an 8AM flight out of Albuquerque. Jesse, flanked by Mr. White and Brock, is there to meet them at the gate.

“Hi!” he exclaims with forced enthusiasm, trying to quiet the nervousness that threatens to cut off his voice.

“Jesse!” Adam Pinkman says, reaching out and shaking his son’s hand. Janet pulls Jesse into an awkward hug, and Jake simply gives him a smile of acknowledgement. It’s then that Janet catches sight of Brock and Walt, and opens her mouth before Jesse cuts her off.

“Mom, Dad, Jake, I… okay, well, as you can see, Mr. White has been staying with me for a while – it’s a long story – and… this is my son, Brock. Brock, these are my parents and my little brother, Jake.” Brock looks up and smiles shyly, as the Pinkmans exchange confused looks. “I’ll explain everything back at the house… I promise,” Jesse adds quickly, and he feels more confident than he had since his mother called. He can handle this.

***

“So, I… well, after I got married, I adopted Brock, and… so, yeah,” Jesse explains as he taps his fingers against the coffee-table in front of the couch. Pride spreads across his face at the mention of Brock, who is upstairs playing some kind of video game and, at least hypothetically, doing homework.

“So where is…” Janet starts, and Jesse quickly preempts the question.

“Back in New Mexico. Her grandmother is really sick, and she’s back there a while taking care of her.”

Jesse gets the feeling that neither of his parents buys this as the full story, but neither of them comments, at least not yet. 

“That’s very responsible of you, Jesse,” his father speaks up after a moment, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Walt considers it – they must be as surprised as he is that Jesse left New Mexico a junkie and somehow turned into a father along the way… a student, a productive member of society.

“The house next door is a rental house,” Jesse continues, “I’m renting to one girl now but two more are making plans to move in. How have you been? Jake, how’s school?”

“It’s good,” Jake replies, “I’m in tenth grade at Wynne.”

“Good old Wynne,” Jesse says with an awkward smile. “Same old same old there?”

“Definitely,” Jake replies. 

“Still in the band?”

“Yep. Still playing the piccolo,” Jake says with a grin.

“Well, the girls love a musician,” Jesse teases “Brock sings. He doesn’t take any formal lessons or anything, but he’s in the choir… and he’s really good.” He flushes with pride.

Mrs. Pinkman smiles at both of her sons, still a bit astonished and slightly uneasy at seeing them together again.

“How do you like being a parent, Jesse?”

“It’s terrifying,” Jesse replies honestly.

“That’s the truth.”

***

Walt eventually leaves the Pinkmans to “catch up” and retires to his and Jesse’s room, while Jake heads up to the cot haphazardly placed in Brock’s room as well. When they have him alone, Mrs. Pinkman considers her words.

“Jesse,” she begins, “I’m a little concerned.”

“About what?” he inquires, looking up with a feigned innocence in his eyes.

“This is a lot of responsibility. This child isn’t even yours – not by blood, anyway, and you’re taking care of him. Is this woman you married – is she even coming back? Is this whole thing about a sick family member really true or – did she run out on you and leave you with _her_ child?”

Jesse sighs and swallows, before deciding that if he’s dishonest, his parents aren’t dumb – they’ll figure it out.

“Andrea and I are separated. She’s… working things out. She keeps in contact but… it’s a long story, but the point of it is, is that it’s better for Brock to be here with me than there with her.”

“Are you sure you can do it alone, Jesse?” Janet presses, and he nods.

“I have for two years now. It’s… crazy but my life isn’t bad. It’s not… I have Brock. He keeps me sane.” Jesse smiles and gazes around the house. “I’m… the luckiest guy to have him in my life. He’s the best. I just… hope I can be the parent to him that he deserves, what with all this. I never succeeded at anything in my life, but if I just… succeed at raising him, then I’m okay.”

“I’m proud of you.” The words are so quiet and utterly unexpected that Jesse stares at his father in shock, unable to believe that he’s said them.

“I… wow… okay, thanks,” he says finally, and smiles. “Wow.”

“So, Jesse, how many guest rooms do you have in this house?” Janet inquires, trying to break the tension created by the silence after the remark.

“Just the one. The other one’s like a study,” Jesse replies without thinking.

“Well, I mean, the one we’re staying in, and the one for Mr. White,” Janet corrects. 

“Uh,” Jesse starts. “Mr. White and I kinda share a room.” He quickly thinks of all the ways he could explain it away – something about Walt’s medical issues, maybe – but he can’t force out the words that make a man so wrapped up in his pride sound like some kind of an invalid. Not that the truth is going to sound much better. “We kind of have a thing. A relationship.” Jesse’s parents exchange looks, their eyes going wide.

“When did – Jesse, you are not gay!” Mrs. Pinkman exclaims. “You have never been gay!”

“I’m not _gay_ ,” Jesse replies firmly, “It’s just something that happened – and if you can not yell so Brock can hear… that’d be great.”

Mrs. Pinkman reigns in her fury and incredulity, but only slightly.

“I just… Jesse, what is going on? Is this…” She swallows hard, trying to think of how to phrase it, as a light seems to go on in her head. “Is this something that started at Wynne? Oh God, Jesse, did he…”

Jesse takes a moment before what she means dawns on him, and he shakes his head emphatically, his nose curling up in disgust.

“Uh, no. That’s… no! Hell, no. This is… way recent. I didn’t plan on it. He moved up here ‘cause… He’s kinda estranged from his wife and kids right now, and we were friends, we kinda stayed in touch,” he pauses, and the half-truths begin to flow easily, “After I graduated, I, well, we ran into each other and I was involved in a lot of shit. Mr. White didn’t want to see me waste my life… so he kinda took an interest in me getting my stuff together, and, well, we got close, as friends, y’know?” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Then I got married and moved and we didn’t really stay in contact until, well, earlier this month, and then, well, it was just supposed to be him crashing, and it got more involved than that. So, yeah, that’s where I’m at.” He drags his hand over his face and closes his eyes. “I’m a college student raising an adopted stepson on my own while in a gay relationship with my old chemistry teacher.” He opens one eye and smirks nervously. “But I’m off drugs.”

***

Walt has curled up on the bed and is reading a book about Erwin Schrodinger when the door opens. He looks up and gets ready to greet Jesse, but closes his mouth when Brock walks into the room instead, casting a shadow against the carpeted floor. 

“Hey, Mr. White,” Brock calls, “Sorry, I was looking for Jesse.” 

“He’s still downstairs with his parents,” Walt replies, shifting awkwardly and sitting up as he puts the book down on the night table. “Are you and Jake getting along?”

“I guess,” Brock replies with a shrug. “Is he my uncle if Jesse is my new dad?”

“I guess,” Walt echoes, not sure whether Jesse wants him to engage in any conversation with the boy at all, and almost hoping Jesse will forbid it.

“That’s cool,” Brock replies, “Jesse said you’re a chemistry teacher.”

“I was,” Walt corrects, not without some bitterness. “I was Jesse’s teacher in school.” Brock grins and giggles, moving to sit on the bed next to Walt. “What are you laughing at?” he teases, some of the tension in his features lessening. “Jesse had to go to school just like everybody else.”

“But Jesse’s old,” Brock retorts.

“Old people have to go to school too. And if Jesse’s old, what does that make me?”

“Older than old,” Brock replies seriously. He cocks his head to the side when he ears Mrs. Pinkman exclaim from the living room that Jesse is “ _not_ gay”.

“Jesus Christ,” Walt mumbles under his breath. Brock gives a curious look at Walt. “Ignore that,” he instructs.

“Jesse’s gay?” Brock inquires.

“No,” Walt replies quickly, but Brock shrugs.

“Adam and Callie’s dad says Neil Patrick Harris is gay, and he sings really good.” He shrugs again, expressing complete indifference.

“Really _well_ , Brock,” Walt corrects out of habit, and Brock rolls his eyes, but quickly brightens. 

“What was Jesse like in school?” he pipes up. Walt hesitates, unsure whether to lie or not. 

“Jesse was… a normal teenage kid,” he replies simply. “He was a smart kid, but… most kids in high school tend to forget about studying and are more interested in things like friends and TV.” Brock smiles.

“When I grow up, I wanna be like Jesse.”

 _If he only knew,_ Walt thinks to himself.


	15. Chapter 15

_“Can I tell it like it is? (Help me I'm suffering)  
Listen to me baby…”_

Somehow the combined Pinkman-White family managed to not get into each other’s way until Jesse had finished preparing a turkey, with ample help from Walt and enthusiastic encouragement from Brock.

“Okay, so,” Jesse begins, “We’ve got the turkey, stuffing, gravy, and we’ve got, some… I don’t know, assorted vegetables of some kind.” He gestures, standing, to the plates that he has arranged in the middle of the table. He clasps his hands in front of him and continues, “I was thinking we could go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” before quipping, “This had better go better than it did on _Dexter_.” When no one laughs, he looks around and coughs nervously. “Uh, anyone want to go first?” When no one raises their hand, he shrugs. “Okay. I’ll go. I’m thankful for… well, first of all, for Brock.” He turns to his son and smiles, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “You’re everything to me. And I’m thankful for you, Mr. White, for being my partner…” He cuts off before he can add “in crime”. “And I’m thankful to be reconnected with my family. It’s been too long.” He smiles and sits down. 

After a long awkward moment, Jake raises his hand and volunteers, “I’ll go.” Everyone turns and looks in his direction. “I’m thankful for getting to see Jesse again.”

“I’ll go,” Mr. Pinkman chimes in after a moment. “I’m thankful for this family, for my sons…” He pauses and a small half-smile appears on his face. “And my new grandson. Welcome to the family, Brock.”

“I second what my husband said,” Mrs. Pinkman agrees, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Can I go?” Brock asks, and Jesse nods with a smile. “I’m… uh… I’m thankful for Jesse – and Mom – and Mr. White – and our house and my friends and, uh, for Thanksgiving.” He grins and looks expectantly at Walt, who swallows and clears his throat.

“I’m… thankful for Jesse taking me into his family,” he says simply, and Jesse clasps his hands and smiles. 

“Let’s eat!”

***

“So, Brock,” Mrs. Pinkman begins, “How are you liking school?”

“It’s ‘sokay,” he replies, shuffling a few pieces of cauliflower around on his plate.

“Brock, try and eat your vegetables,” Jesse says with a gesture at Brock’s plate. “If you eat them all, you can play Rock Band after dinner.” Brock beams and reluctantly scoops up a cauliflower and a couple of peas.

“How are things back in Albuquerque?” Jesse asks his parents. “We might get snow up here.”

“Snow!” Brock exclaims happily. “Yeah!”

Jesse chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“It’s good for him, not quite so good for me when I have to drive in it… and shovel it…”

“What grade are you in, Brock?” Janet asks.

“Third,” Brock replies.

“Wow,” Janet says, “That’s great. What are you guys learning about?”

“Fractions. The Revolution. Ummm… Atoms. Stuff like that.” Brock looks up and gives another shy smile. Despite her misgivings, Janet feels herself being won over.

“What do you like to do, Brock? When you’re not in school?”

“Umm… Sing… Read… Draw… Video games.”

“That’s great, Brock.”

Jesse smiles; maybe they’re ignoring Mr. White after that bombshell announcement, but they’re at least warming to Brock. Then again, Jesse considers, who wouldn’t?

***

After dinner, as promised, Jesse sets up Rock Band. Jake and Walt lunge for the guitars, while Jesse picks up the drumsticks and Brock grabs the microphone. A few moments later, they’re haphazardly working on a rendition of “Carry On Wayward Son” by Kansas – Walt keeps staring at his buttons, Jesse drops his sticks constantly, Jake has his eyes focused on his goal and seems to be taking the game a bit too seriously and Brock, well, Brock is hitting most of the notes but occasionally substituting his own lyrics.

“Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man, though my mind could think I still was a Batman…”  
Jesse breaks into a grin at this, and his parents exchange looks as they hear him chime in on the next chorus, “Lay your Harvey Dent to rest…” before both he and Brock burst out laughing.

“He seems happy,” Janet Pinkman says quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jesse smile like that.”

“He does seem happy. Maybe he’s finally found his way…”

“Yes, but… dating Mr. White?” Janet presses, and her husband shrugs.

“I guess there’s worse things.”

They watch as the group chooses to play the song again, and begin passing around the microphone and each singing a line. Jake looks a bit out of place in the playful atmosphere, but neither Pinkman parent comments on it, noting instead the ease with which Jesse and Brock and, to a lesser extent, Jesse and Mr. White interact, with Jesse nudging the older man playfully and scooping the mic out of his hand.

When the song is over, the group having “failed” quite profoundly, Jesse smiles at Brock and leans forward, picking him up with remarkable ease despite his own thin frame.

“Alright, Brock, time for bed,” he declares, moving with the boy to the stairs as Brock lets out a little shriek of surprise. “Carry on _my_ wayward son…” he teases.

“Jesssseeee…” Brock whines, “It’s not that laaateee…” Jesse is unconvinced and continues up the stairs.

“When he’s in college, that’s not going to work nearly so well,” Adam Pinkman remarks. His wife and Mr. White both chuckle, but awkwardly. “Listen, uh, Mr. White, I hope we haven’t been… rude… the whole thing was just… unexpected.”

“I understand,” Walt replies somberly.

“Do you really think this is what’s best for Jesse? I mean… all of this?” Janet asks.

“Yes,” Walt replies. “Yes, I do.”

“Just…” she starts, and then sighs. “Just make sure that you take care of him?”

“I promise.”

***

The Pinkmans fly back the next morning, and none of the three are sure that they will want to come back and visit again.

“I don’t know what I expected to find,” Adam says to his wife as he pulls down his tray table. “But he seems all right. A son, though?”

“I suppose Jesse is just going to do what he’s going to do. He’s, well… he’s stubborn,” Janet replies. “So completely stubborn. We can’t talk sense to him. Married to this horrible woman who dumps her kid on him. Do you think she’s mixed up in drugs, too? Like he was?”

“I don’t know, there’s something to be said for Jesse stepping up to the plate,” Adam points out. “I mean, most people nowadays don’t even bother to take care of their own kids, let alone somebody else’s. Jesse… seems to have it under control.”

“Oh yes, Adam, because Jesse has the best head on his shoulders,” Janet says sarcastically.  
Jake sighs, rolls his eyes, and puts on his headphones as the plane coasts towards Albuquerque.


	16. Chapter 16

_“It's a dying…  
that's what I have to lose…”_

In December, Jesse has an idea.

“We should take a trip to NYC.”

Walt looks up from the lesson plan he’s typing and blinks. He had been granted the adjunct position after an hour interview in which he was mainly asked what his teaching method was and whether he would also be able to pick up a stray section of General Chem, to which he said yes.

“Why?”

Jesse shrugs.

“Why not? There’s a concert on the 9th that looks pretty promising, and the day before that they have the annual John Lennon memorial. They have it, like, every year.” 

Walt smirks, about to point out that that is, in fact, what “annual” means, but decides against it – his energy or desire to take shots at Jesse has dissipated in the three years of the Heisenberg bubble’s slow deflation.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says instead. “Would we book a hotel or…? And would we bring Brock?”

“I think we’ll take Brock another time, ‘cause I think he’s a little young for concerts. Might be too intense and there’s always some drunk guy being an asshole. I’m sure Donya could watch him overnight if I let her know pretty soon.”

“So who’s performing at the concert?”

“No one you’ve heard of,” Jesse replies.

***

Jesse buys the tickets and marks the two days off his calendar. A few days before leaving comes the task of telling Brock.

“This might not be easy,” he confides to Walt. “I’m not sure how he’s going to take it.”

“But we’re only going to be gone two…” Walt begins, but Jesse shoots him a look which makes him stop speaking.

“You’re not really good on picking up on, like, context, are you?” Jesse retorts.

“Context, wow,” Walt muses. “Where’d you pick up the vocabulary?” Jesse flips his middle finger in Walt’s direction.

“I got your vocabulary right here,” he replies. “Seriously. Andrea told Brock – and me – that she’d be gone a couple weeks. Uh, that turned into two years and counting. I’m worried Brock will think this is a repeat performance.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and sighs. “It’d be easy enough to just say I’m not gonna go, but I’m going to have to travel somewhere sometime… So I’d better try this now. How do I make him believe I really won’t leave him behind?”

“Just tell him the truth,” Walt suggests, “Yeah, I know, rich coming from me. But you don’t have anything to hide. You are coming back, barring death and dismemberment on some subway train.” Jesse smiles wryly.

“Even dismemberment won’t stop me. I’d crawl back.”

***

“Brock, hey. Can I talk to you for a few minutes, honey?” Jesse inquires after he sticks his head into Brock’s room. Brock sits at the desk at the edge of the room, which is positioned in front of his bed.

“Okay,” Brock replies, putting his pencil down and looking at Jesse. “What’d I do?” Jesse’s eyes widen in confusion.

“No! No, you didn’t do anything.” Jesse steps inside and walks over to Brock’s bed, slowly sitting on the edge of it. “Brock, Mr. White and I were thinking of maybe going to New York for a co… for two days. To spend some time together and catch up. I was thinking you could stay over with Donya this time, and then, the next time, you and me could go up and sightsee.” Brock smiles, a half-smile, and looks up at Jesse, nodding. Jesse considers Walt’s word, _honesty,_ and continues. “I was afraid that you might think that… I might not come back from New York.” Brock bites his lip.

“You don’t want to move there forever?” he asks softly. Jesse shakes his head.

“Nope… only for two days. Then I’ll be tired of it and, probably tired of Mr. White… and missing you.” Brock looks at Jesse.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Jesse replies and reaches up, tussling Brock’s hair. “Brock…” he hesitates. “Do you remember the time you had to go to the hospital?” Brock pauses, but nods. “Well, that wasn’t very long after I started dating your mom. And… I remember, I was so afraid that something might happen to you… Because I love you, and I don’t want to ever lose you. So… I’m always coming back, no matter what.”

“You mean it?” Brock asks softly, and Jesse nods.

“I’m always going to keep my promises to you, Brock,” he vows. “You’re the most important person in my life.” Brock smiles shyly and turns around, letting Jesse pull him into a tight hug.

***

They take the train up, as Jesse is informed that driving in New York is something best avoided. He gets a little thrill of excitement as somehow, it feels like now, at last, their relationship is _real_ , public, in a way their partnership never was. He starts to consider all he may have been missing while the two of them met in secluded car meets and talked over the tops of aisles in convenience stores.

As they sit next to each other on the train, Walt sitting next to the window and Jesse in the aisle, Jesse slowly reaches out and places his hand on top of Walt’s. When the older man doesn’t pull back, he breathes out, relieved, but can’t help but wonder if this newfound acquiescence is just proof that Walt has just given up. He starts to consider what that giving up may look like in the days to come; he can’t envision the great Heisenberg wasting away and he doesn’t want to.  
He doesn’t know if he can do it, not really, but he’s committed to it now.

He remembers his own words: _If you just do stuff and nothing happens, what’s the point?_

If he walks away now, he is the bad guy.

And despite every inclination, every urge not to, he loves Walter White. Is in love with Walter White.

He squeezes Walt’s hand tighter. He’s not ready to let him go. Not yet.


	17. Chapter 17

_“I've got an answer  
I'm going to fly away  
What have I got to lose?”_

They check into their hotel, as Jesse tries to brush off his worries regarding Brock.

“Donya knows… the situation… it’s why I don’t really leave Brock with any other sitters… She has power of attorney and she knows… not to release him to Andrea or anyone else from her family. Or my family, for that matter.” He groans and puts his face in his hands as he presses the button for the elevator. “Did you deal with this shit when you got divorced? I mean, it’s insane. I mean, okay, I don’t really get along with my parents anyway, but if I did, or I wanted to see them for whatever – there is no way I’m setting foot in New Mexico. If I did, Andrea could make a big grab for custody and dig up all kinds of shit on me.” He smiles. “But up in PA? I don’t even have a speeding ticket. A couple parking tickets, but other than that… I’m clean as… I don’t even know. I just wish she’d get her shit together. For Brock, at least.” Jesse sighs and leans against the wall. “But until then, no one is taking my child from me.”

Walt feels an odd sense of pride rush through him at Jesse’s words. The same Jesse who had – well, he had only rarely seen Jesse poised to give up. More often, he had been the one to want to throw in the towel, and Jesse had urged him on, telling him he needed to come up with _something, could_ come up with something. And then he would. Even the plot that had defeated Gus had been formed with Jesse’s words echoing in his brain. And had been carried on Jesse’s insistence that he would not run, that he would kill Gus. 

But no. Thinking about that particular topic isn’t wise, not now. Not ever.

The elevator doors open and they step inside, along with a small corral of college-aged girls who had, it appears, decided they needed to fit every belonging they owned into rolling suitcases, some of which were adorned in sequins.

Jesse rolls his eyes at Walt as the girls chatter excitedly amongst themselves, before getting off at the fourth floor. Jesse lets out his breath and smiles; they have the elevator to themselves, and devious ideas start to float around his mind, like what he’s seen on TV, pressing the emergency stop and getting down to it right against the wall.

But they’ll be at their room before too long, so Jesse behooves himself to wait.

When they arrive at the 10th floor, the door opens, and Jesse bursts into the hall, almost knocking Walt out of the way. 

“Let’s go to our room,” Jesse urges, and Walt chuckles.

“What’s the hurry?”

Jesse smirks.

“We’re alone… alone, just us, don’t have to worry about Brock, or worse, my parents, getting an earful.” He bursts out laughing. “Did you see their faces? I mean, I thought my mom was gonna blow a gasket.” He strides down the carpet before reaching the room and sticking the keycard into its slot, then turning the handle to open the door. Walt follows him at a slightly more leisurely pace, but once the door has clicked shut, he reaches up and pushes Jesse against the wall, roughly pressing his lips against Jesse’s.

“Ummmugh,” Jesse gasps out. “You want me, do you? Now that you’ve got me all to yourself?”

“I always want you all to myself,” Walt replies, and grinds his hips against Jesse’s leg, pushing the younger man harder against the wall; Jesse can feel Walt’s erection poking him, and he gasps out again.

“Oh God. Yeah, that’s what I like to hear! Ugh, fuck me! Let’s mark this hotel room!” He manages to get out from under Walt’s hands and leads him over to the bed, a king-size bed with a red comforter and pillows with roses on them. “I wanna wake up the whole hotel!” Jesse teases seductively.

“Jeez, Jesse,” Walt whispers back, “What’s gotten into you?”

“You, hopefully,” Jesse retorts playfully, pulling Walt’s shirt up. “Off, off!” he exclaims, almost like a chant.

“There’s no hurry,” Walt cautions.

“Yes there is.” While Jesse’s tone is light, the meaning behind the words isn’t. It’s that ever-thumping repeat of _a year, a year, a year._

Walt pulls off his shirt and reaches forward to fumble with Jesse’s pants. When he has the clasp open, he presses his hands hard against the younger man’s shoulders and pins him to the bed. Jesse squirms under the touches, writhes in fact, letting the panting and the thumping of his heart drown out _a year, a year, a year…_

_Maybe not even a year._

Walt pulls off Jesse’s pants before grasping at his underwear, tossing them into a pile next to where they have stashed their suitcases. He strips off his own shirt and wads it up, throwing it away as well before kicking off his shoes and pulling off Jesse’s, then his socks.

“We did lock the door, right?” Jesse teases, but Walt ignores him and continues, until both are completely naked and Walt is atop Jesse, his hands placed firmly on his partner’s shoulders. If not for want of lube, they would be on with it right now, and Walt regrets having to break the illusion to go root around for it, potentially coming up empty-handed.

So he has another idea, instead.

“Jesse,” Walt hisses out, before shoving two of his fingers into Jesse’s mouth. 

Jesse gives a little “umph” of protest before complying, sucking them hard and lathering his tongue against hem, curling it and sliding it against the man’s fingertips. 

“That’s right, Jesse,” Walt encourages, and Jesse rolls his eyes but increases his suction, opening his mouth a little wider to get Walt’s fingers down to his knuckles, as if to show off what he can do. Walt watches the display with wonder, and he’s fixed in the moment, as if it’s a static, paused picture from an old silent movie, yellowed at the edges and maybe a few reels missing, but unlikely to ever be forgotten.

Walt hopes that Jesse thinks the same of him. Hopefully those missing reels are the ones where he’s been at his worst – God, the car bugging, the – but Jesse is looking at him now with an expression of impatience, so there’s no good that can come of following that thought any longer. He pulls his fingers out and scoots on his knees towards Jesse.

Walt teases one finger over Jesse’s entrance, more careful this time than the last, but Jesse responds with an impatient whine.

“C’mon, Mr. White. I can take it. I want it. Give it to me.” He looks up with wide eyes as Walt slides the first finger inside, and squirms a little comfortably, but otherwise voices no complaint.

“Jesse… my Jesse,” Walt muses quietly as he wriggles the finger deeper, before he finds Jesse’s prostate and, with a satisfied smirk, strokes it.

Jesse gasps out, a half-yell on his tongue, incapable of forming words.

“Jesus Christ, Mr. White, don’t play around!” he exclaims when he’s caught his breath. “You’re being a tease!”

At that, Walt slides in the second finger, and Jesse pushes back on it, crying out in some mix of discomfort and want, conflicting in him in such a way that he isn’t entire sure _what_ he wants, other than that he wants this.

“Again, again,” Jesse hisses out, and Walt understands the meaning of the words and strokes Jesse’s spot again. “Oh my God, Mr. White!” Jesse yelps and grabs a-hold of Walt’s shoulders.

“Alright Jesse, let’s move on…” Walt leans in and nips at Jesse’s lower lip.

“You want me to…” Jesse begins, gesturing downward.

“Do what you want, Jesse,” Walt whispers huskily into Jesse’s ear, making his hair stand on end, “But it’s in your best interest, I’m sure you realize.” Jesse shivers, but grins.

“You’re such a dick,” he declares as he reaches out, bracing his arms on Walt’s legs, and there’s affection in the words. Jesse hesitates a few seconds, but eventually stretches out his neck to take Walt’s cock between his lips, slowly mimicking the actions he’d practiced on the older man’s fingers, except now instead of just curious wonder, he’s inspiring moans and gasps, eager pleading.

But just as he’s sure his mentor is at his point, that one more stroke of his tongue will be too much for him to handle, Jesse pulls off.

“No, no,” he teases with a devious half-smile. “Not yet.”

Walt gives Jesse a look which clearly states his desire to thrash him.

“You’re not cumming unless it’s in me,” Jesse barks, and he finds himself surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Then you better be ready,” Walt fires back, before he reaches out, grabs Jesse’s hips roughly and guides his cock inside.  
It doesn’t go in as easily as the last time, and Jesse has a quick moment of regret, but he shakes it off as he locks eyes with Walt and lets out the same half-laugh/half-groan he’s beginning to associate with that feeling, that feeling of being utterly overwhelmed to the point that he can’t quite figure out where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

“Mr. Whiiiiiiite,” he exclaims, “Just…” He breathes, “Gimme a moment. Just a second.” Walt complies with a strangely affectionate touch to Jesse’s back, and his former student gives a brave smile and closes his eyes. “Mr. White, goddamn,” Jesse whispers as he slowly adjusts. He opens his eyes and grabs Walt’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers gently. “Go. Move. I’m ready.”

Walt begins to thrust, not letting go of Jesse’s hand, moaning out his name and finding himself unable to say much else, or even able to think much else. He realizes he’s needed this, this all along, to purify him, to get rid of everything he’s had to do. Maybe take him back to the way he was, before – but, no, he realizes he doesn’t want that, either. He doesn’t know what he wants, other than this, other than Jesse’s heat tightly clenched around his cock, as if Jesse is claiming him while he’s doing the same.

He starts deeper thrusts, feeling his breathing begin to shallow as he hits Jesse’s spot again – and again – and feels his own orgasm approaching, far too soon.

“Jesse, my Jesse,” Walt babbles, closing his eyes and crying out the younger man’s name again as he cums, collapsing on his side in exhaustion, still inside Jesse.

Jesse tries to catch his breath as he gives Walt’s hand a squeeze, a reminder that he’s there.

“Jesse, I’m sorry, I’ll get you in a sec…” Jesse cuts him off with a kiss to his lower lip.

“I’ll take a rain check,” he replies softly. “Listen to you, you’re exhausted. Long day. Close your eyes.” Walt listens, as much as he’d like to argue back, and slow lets his eyelids slip shut. Jesse lets go of his hand in favor of draping an arm over him as Walt slides out of him. Jesse leans in to kiss him again, before he closes his own eyes, whispering, “I love you, Mr. White.” He’s not sure if he heard, and almost hopes he didn’t.


	18. Chapter 18

_“Will you come see me Thursdays and Saturdays?  
What have you got to lose?”_

When Walt awakes a few hours later, he’s conscious of Jesse’s warmth against him, as well as the sound of steady, rhythmic breathing.

Walt reaches over and gently grazes Jesse’s head with two of his fingers, and a moment later he stirs, opening his eyes and gazing at Walt with an uninhibited, seemingly immensely satisfied look. 

“Mr. White,” he murmurs, before yawning and slowly outstretching his arms. “What time is it?”

Walt gazes over at the digital clock on the night table, blinking before he makes a clumsy grab for his glasses. When he’s put them on, he reports, “5:01.”

Jesse yawns.

“We better get dressed, we can go head over to the memorial thing a little later, like, they have the moment of silence near eleven and all. Let’s go get dinner and… tomorrow we ought to hit up the Museum of Sex.”

“There’s a Museum of Sex?”

“You sound surprised, Mr. White.”

“What does one find in the Museum of Sex?”

Jesse sits up and rolls his eyes.

“Well, I’d like to find out, but I’ll go out on a limb and say, stuff to do with sex.”

Walt mimes grabbing his crotch, and Jesse snickers.

“Let’s get in the shower,” he suggests, looking at his hand, “I’m all sweaty and cummy.”

“Is ‘cummy’ a word?” Walt teases.

“Imagine Cummy Bears. The new dirty candy.”

“That’s disgusting, Jesse.”

Jesse smirks happily.

“I try my best.” 

Walt rises off the bed and ambles over to the bathroom door.

“You coming?” he inquires, and Jesse scrambles up and follows Walt to the door.

As Walt opens it, he grins widely. 

“If we get started doing something, we might never get to dinner…”

Jesse laughs.

“For right now, I’m worn out!” he exclaims. “But later…” He leans in and gives Walt a kiss on the cheek. “Two days of just us…”

“And a couple hundred Lennon fans,” Walt points out, stepping into the bathroom.

“Yeah, well, Lennon did say ‘All You Need is Love’,” Jesse responds. He reaches out and grabs a towel, tossing it on the floor,

“What’d you do that for?” Walt inquires, and Jesse snorts.

“So we have something to step on when we step out. What, you don’t do that when you take a shower?”

“I usually don’t get out sopping wet and track water all over everywhere.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re Mr. Tidy, that’s why I keep finding your hairs in the drain… and before you point out you’re bald, they ain’t the hairs from your head, Mr. White.” Walt looks vaguely offended, but finds a certain futility in the idea of bickering naked, so he lets it go and pulls back the curtain.

“So are we… co-showering or is there going to be some order to this?” Walt inquires.

“I vote co,” Jesse replies, smirking as he lifts one foot over the side of the tub and steps inside. “It’s not like we haven’t been close to each other, as in, like – last night.” He lifts his other foot inside and is quickly followed by Walt.

There’s a little bit of a quick-draw battle to get to the faucet, but Jesse is faster and turns it to a fairly hot setting, raising his hands over his head as the water rains down on them.

“What’s better than this?” he declares.

“Nothing,” Walt replies, looping his arms around Jesse and kissing him. Jesse lets out a little laugh and moves back, against the wall. “I still owe you from last night.”

“Oh, you do?” Jesse teases, reaching up and putting his hands on Walt’s shoulders. “You want to give me my rain check now? Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Walt hisses, stroking his palm up Jesse’s leg to his cock, rubbing it and slowly feeling it harden.

“Oh God,” Jesse gasps out. “Mr. White – you’re going to wear me out.”

“Are you complaining?” Walt shoots back, leaning in and nipping at Jesse’s ear as he tightens his grip. Jesse shakes his head, bowing his head and moving further towards Walt.

“Mmm, Mr. White – this ought to be a…” But Walt breaks him into a little squeak/gasp before he can say “trend”.

“I agree,” Walt hisses, stroking and twisting, gently, but the look in his eyes has gone back to that determined, almost scary look that Jesse has become familiar with, as if nothing else matters other than getting Jesse off, other than accomplishing his goal.  
Jesse tilts his head up and feels some of the stream from the shower splash over his face. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to stave off the orgasm. Meanwhile, he moves to brace himself on Walt’s shoulders. Nothing will kill the mood faster than him slipping and cracking his head open. He thinks back briefly to the words he’d said last night, wondering whether to repeat them.

The repetition of those words, if only in his head, is what pushes him over the edge, yelping, “Mr. White!” as he cums. 

“At least we’re in the shower,” he continues lightly as soon as he recovers hi breath. He pushes the phrase to the back of his head – he’s not sure he’s ready to say them or maybe he’s not ready for what Walt’s response might be.

A moment later, they’re cleaned up and have stepped out and gotten dressed. Within the next ten minutes, they’re out on the street, discussing where to eat dinner.

“I think I saw a steakhouse down that way,” Jesse points.

“Where do we have to eventually end up?”

“72nd Street. But right around there is mainly residential, except a couple of hot dog carts and whatever. And I’m not paying $6 for a hot dog.”

“All right then, steakhouse?” Jesse sighs.

“I don’t know. I kinda want Applebee’s.”

“Not Denny’s?” Walt teases, and Jesse curls up his nose.

“I think I’m turned off of Denny’s for the rest of my life.”

***

“So,” Jesse says as he reaches out and plucks a mozzarella stick off of his plate. “Since this is a date, we ought to be getting to know each other.”

Walt pauses, closing his fingers around his tortilla chip. 

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Truth or truth.”

“Come again?”

“It’s truth or dare, without the dares,” Jesse explains, biting into his mozzarella stick.

“All right.” Walt crunches his chip. “Since we’ve five. I choose truth.” He smiles. “What is truth?”

“When did you lose your virginity?”

Walt drops his chip in the spinach dip, and a look of victory crosses Jesse’s face. Walt looks around the restaurant, making sure no one is paying attention, before clearing his throat.

“I was twenty.”

“Okay,” Jesse replies, not commenting – at least, Walt considers, not yet. “Your turn.”

“How about you?” Walt retorts. “When did you lose yours? If we’re asking personal questions.” Jesse smirks.

“Sixteen. I figure we’re both pretty standard.”

Walt considers the information for a moment.

“Who was it?”

Jesse grins.

“Wait your turn!” he chastises. “Who was it for _you_?” 

“Oh, God,” Walt replies, leaning forward to put his hand on his chin. “Some girl at Caltech who wanted me to help her with her homework.”

“Did you?”

“…Yes. Ended up pretty much doing it for her. I suspected she was going to get an A anyway, if you catch my drift.”  
Jesse chuckles.

“Alright, since you asked – mine was Whitney Bishop.”

Walt raises an eyebrow.

“The blonde girl who always tried to relate every chemical concept to puppies?”

“Well, y’know, her folks owned an animal shelter. Well, you see, it was the year after Columbine, and we had some – maybe you remember this – big assembly like Wynne loves to do, where everyone talks about their feelings.”

Walt nods. The one after the plane crash had been in a long line of many.

“Well, Whitney turns to me, ‘cause I happened to be sitting next to her, and she starts talking about that the world needs more… compassion… and I was like, yeah, it does. And she kept talking all the way to, uh, her house and into her bed.”

“Jesse!” Walt chastises. “That’s an awful thing to do.”

“I thought it was pretty compassionate, myself,” Jesse replies, grabbing a hot wing from the plate.


	19. Chapter 19

_“Chestnut brown canary  
Ruby throated sparrow  
Sing the song don't be long  
Thrill me to the marrow…”_

They never do get to the next question. When they walk down the steps of 42nd Street Station, they’re still talking about losing one’s virginity, and Jesse has pulled up a set of national statistics on his phone.

“Seventeen is the average age, apparently,” Jesse informs him. “Yo, I remember reading a magazine and there’s a rock star who lost it at eleven.”

Walt curls up his nose.

“Eleven? Seriously?” He looks at Jesse incredulously, trying to figure out how that’s even possible, given that when he was eleven he was still building forts and playing with his chemistry set.

“I’m serious. Given that Brock is almost ten, that’s terrifying. I’m going to lock him in a castle like Rapunzel or some shit.”  
Walt chuckles, but with a little bit of a shiver.

They board the train uptown and get off at 72nd Street. Walt and Jesse climb the steps and they shift their eyes across the street; they can see a few lights flickering against the night.

They cross the street and follow a small trail through the park. Neither of them speak, a little in awe of the atmosphere they are walking into.

“Those apartments we were in front of,” Walt whispers, “That’s where…”

“Yeah… I know,” Jesse whispers back. 

He tries not to visualize it. It’s too familiar, the crack of the bullet leaving the gun… 

The two take their places in the candle-holding crowd, and Jesse wishes that he had brought something, some sort of token of respect.

In the corner, a group of men are playing guitars and singing “Things We Said Today”, albeit slightly off-key. They’re decked out in Sgt. Pepper outfits, and Walt can’t fight the feeling of being back in college, though that particular album had come out when he was around nine.

A candle flickers next to Jesse, and he finds himself watching it, drawn to it. It’s representative, in a way, of all the people whose candles have been snuffed out before Jesse’s eyes. Aunt Jenny. Jane.

_Gale._

Jesse rubs at his eyes to try and get rid of the tears forming there.

Instead of dwelling on the thought, on the memory, he reaches out and grabs Walt’s hand, to the older man’s surprise. He doesn’t fight it, though, and looks ahead with Jesse to every flickering candle as they listen to the voices sing.

***

They leave around midnight, taking the subway back to their hotel in silence. They’re still a little transfixed by the scene, and neither knows exactly what to say until they emerge back into the safety of their room.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Walt looks up, not quite registering that it’s Jesse who has spoken.

When he does, his lips curl into a frown. Damn Jesse and his bringing this up now, as if Walt could do something about it – or if he’d even want to do something about it. He was just tired.

“Jesse,” he says finally. “You won’t. Not for a while. Let’s not dwell on that subject right now.”

Jesse gives him a look – a plaintive look that makes Walt want to thrash him. 

“Okay,” he tells Walt finally, forcing a smile.

“So who’s this guy we’re going to see in concert tomorrow? The one you said I’d have never heard of?” Walt prompts, moving to sit down on the bed and kick off his shoes. 

“Corey Taylor,” Jesse replies, pulling off his coat and tossing it in the direction of the window. Walt gives him a blank stare, and Jesse laughs. “Told you you’d have never heard of him.”

“What, has he done, exactly?” Walt inquires, his voice patronizing.

“He was the lead – is the lead singer for Slipknot and Stone Sour,” Jesse explains, “And, yes, I know neither of those names mean anything to you. Slipknot came around when I was in your class at Wynne.” Jesse snorts. “Which seems like a lifetime ago.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t thinking this was going to happen back then,” Walt points out.

“I hope not!” Jesse tells him, “Otherwise, that’d make you a pervert.”

“Might I remind you that you were eighteen or nineteen in my class? Didn’t you get held back or something?” Walt teases. “So I wouldn’t have been that much of a pervert – but, still, that’s repulsive.” Jesse grins.

“First off, never got held back – I started late! Second…” He smirks and begins to sing, incredibly off-key, “Young teacher, the subject, of schoolgirl fantasy…”

Walt flushes and shakes his head.

“Jesse. Really.”

“She wants him, so badly, knows what she wants to be!” Jesse continues, moving closer to grind against the older man.

“Well, no, you didn’t, you had no ambition at all,” Walt counters, but it doesn’t halt Jesse’s serenade. He starts to sing the next line, but realizes he can’t remember what it is, and so fakes it with “nyah na na’s” before looping his arms around Walt and pressing his forehead against the man’s shoulder.

“You’re something else, Jesse.”

“Thank you.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted in this chapter is "Snuff" by Slipknot.

_“Voices of the angels, ring around the moonlight  
Asking me, said she's so free  
How can you catch the sparrow?”_

“Aren’t we going to be early?” Walt asks as they pull on coats and hats – Walt briefly wonders where his Heisenberg hat has gotten to – and prepare to head out the door.

“Well, it’s general admission, so the earlier we get there, the better our seats are. And we can get a drink or something,” Jesse pauses, “Unless, I mean, they’re going to, like interact bad with your meds.” Walt doesn’t respond. “You are taking them, aren’t you?” Walt shrugs.

“Yeah. Most of them,” he replies. Jesse thinks better of pursuing it, but renews his vow to set Walt up with a local doctor as soon as hey get home. He opens the door and gestures for Walt to enter the hall first. “I’m going to be the oldest person at this concert but at least thirty years, aren’t I?” Walt inquires.

Jesse grins.

“Probably. I’ll be sure to throw things at you and call you a perv in the middle of a slow song.”

Walt rolls his eyes.

“Thanks for that, Jesse.”

They take about a ten minute subway ride to the venue, which is the Hammerstein Ballroom.

“I read that that place is owned by Moonies,” Walt states.

“What are Moonies?” Jesse inquires.

“They’re… never mind. It’d take too long to explain.”

There’s a brief drinking session for both men, before they walk down a short hallway and find themselves in a rather small room in which a stage is prominent. Unlike the concerts Walt is used to from his youth, there’s no drumset, just a backdrop with “CMFT” on it.

“What does that stand for? CMFT?” 

Jesse grins.

“Corey Motherfucking Taylor,” he responds, and Walt rolls his eyes.

The show begins about fifteen minutes later, with Corey – who Walt feels looks a lot like someone who’d be a friend of Jesse’s – running through a reading from his book, which is apparently about the Seven Deadly Sins, followed by a Q&A. Halfway through the Q&A session, Walt notices a group of men behind them, who seem at least slightly intoxicated.

By the time the performer heads backstage to get his guitar, the drunk men’s conversation is really starting to grate on him.

“Yeah, I fucked her,” one of them announces loudly, “I fucked her good.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. 

Corey returns to the stage, beginning an acoustic set. Jesse knows a fair amount of the songs, miming singing along as he stands close to Walt, who on the other hand recognizes more than one classic rock cover and nods his head in semi-approval.

But the people behind them are still talking.

“Yeah man, I was at the Yankee’s game while I was fucking her.”

Walt rolls around in between songs.

“I’m sorry, is the man on stage with the guitar interrupting your conversation?” Maybe it’s the look on Walt’s face, that of clear annoyance turned to anger borne out of years of students who were having side conversations in his classes, that finally shuts them up.

During the next song, they turn and leave.

Jesse looks at his partner with a shocked pride and flashes him a thumbs-up.

When the next song is announced, Jesse’s breath hitches.

“What was the title?” Walt whispers.

“Snuff,” Jesse mumbles back.

Walt wonders why this song would strike such a chord with the younger man, that is until he catches a cluster of lyrics:

_“I still press your letters to my lips  
And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss…”_

Walt lets his eyes slip shut, pictures the look on Jesse’s face when he had spoken of Jane, before… before the thing Walt had had to do. He had rationalized it a hundred times over, tried to justify the broken Jesse he’d found in the crack den by reminding himself that he’d freed Jesse to live another day.

But what kind of life has it been?

_“I couldn't face a life without your light,  
But all of that was ripped apart, when you refused to fight…”_

Words that Jesse might have spoken to Andrea, or to him in other days. He can still remember the look of betrayal on Jesse’s face when he had revealed his plan to Gus. At the time, he’d branded Jesse as ungrateful, looking at him like he was Judas Iscariot or something and had sold him out for his own gain rather than to save Jesse’s sorry ass yet again. 

But now…

He’s unsure.

_“So save your breath, I will not care.  
I think I made it very clear.  
You couldn't hate enough to love.  
Is that supposed to be enough?”_

It’s not enough. _This_ isn’t enough, not after what Walt has done, has had to do. Jesse might have grown back in his broken roots but that doesn’t change the fact that he was broken to begin with. He can’t shake the image of Jesse when he’d first met up with him again – bright-eyed and naïve, even if he was already a criminal. 

It bears no relation to the man before him.

_“I only wish you weren't my friend.  
Then I could hurt you in the end.  
I never claimed to be a saint...  
Ooh, my own was banished long ago,  
It took the death of hope to let you go…”_

Walt looks over at Jesse to see tears rolling down his face. He reaches out and grabs his hand, barely keeping it together himself; as if by some telepathic link, he feels Jesse’s pain in a way he never has before, his soul rubbed raw by all that has happened to him over the years.

_“If you still care don’t ever let me know…”_


	21. Chapter 21

_“Lacy, lilting, lyric, losing love, lamenting  
Change my life, make it right  
Be my lady…”_

Brock Cantillo Pinkman opens his eyes and stares at the calendar, noting the big red circle around today’s date.  
It’s the day Jesse and Mr. White are coming home. At least, that had been what Jesse said.

Brock sits up, kicking his feet out of the bed before slipping out into the hallway. He can hear Donya downstairs, making breakfast, and he smiles as the smell of scrambled eggs and toast wafts over to his nose. 

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, she calls to him: “Morning, Brock!”

“Morning,” he echoes, waving. 

“You excited for Jesse to be back?” she asks when Brock takes a seat at the kitchen table. He nods.

Brock finds himself thinking about it. He’s only known Jesse since he was six, but the man is a huge part of his life. He can remember wondering why some of the other kids in his school had dads but he didn’t, but when Jesse had come along at first, he hadn’t put him into that role.

After all, Brock had seen a number of boyfriends come and go by then, a couple nice ones ad a couple ones that were really scary, who would fight with his mother in her room and Brock would hear the sound of things breaking through the walls as he curled up in his bed and tried to drown it out.

But Jesse was different, though Brock couldn’t have explained how. Over time, the boy had come to trust and like him, to understand that Jesse loved him and wanted to protect him.

And then when his mother had left and had yet to return, Jesse had been there, maybe as scared as he was but keeping it together, strong and kind and always willing to listen or comfort.

Brock loves him. The memory of what used to be – he, his mom, and Jesse – has been fading, to the point that her voice on the phone has become the norm and living with Jesse alone has become the norm.

 _But what if Jesse doesn’t come back?_ He had promised but… what would happen then? Brock supposed he’d move next door and live with Donya, which wouldn’t be too bad, but he’d really miss Jesse.

So he hopes Jesse is coming back.

“Here you go,” Donya says as she places Brock’s plate in front of him, before making another for herself.

“Are you going to be my new mom like Jesse is my new dad?” he blurts out, picking up his fork.

Donya chuckles.

“No, no, no!” she declares. “Jesse and I aren’t… together, if you know what I mean. Dating.”

“I think Jesse and Mr. White are ‘together’,” Brock pipes up.

Donya raises an eyebrow, giving him an expression of, “it’d explain a lot.”

“Well, see, if they are, then I guess… well, I don’t know. Mr. White would definitely not be your new mom,” she tells him and grins, “How is your mom? She’s still out in New Mexico?” Brock nods.

“She’s taking care of Abuela,” he explains, and Donya nods.

“I know you miss her, though.”

“Yeah.” He scoops up a piece of egg and shovels it into his mouth, chewing it and then swallowing. “Would it be weird if I called Jesse ‘Dad’?”

“Not at all, sweetheart,” Donya replies, tussling his hair. “I don’t think he’d mind at all.”

***

Brock hears the sound of the key turning from up in his room; he’s become attuned to it, to where even if he doesn’t hear it, he senses it. 

Back before his mother had left, that had been the sound to signal that Jesse was home from school, and was all set to scoop Brock up into his arms and kiss his forehead.

It’s the best sound.

Now, Brock races down the stairs, worried that it somehow won’t be Jesse, but it is, of course.

Jesse’s standing next to Mr. White, with a backpack slung over his arms, and he gets Donya with a grin and a brief hug.

“Brock didn’t raise too much hell, I hope?” he teases her. 

“Not at all,” Donya replies, “Like I said, Jesse, anytime. Did you guys have a good trip?” She greets Mr. White, now, with a polite smile.

“Yeah, but our train back got delayed, something broke down apparently…” Jesse shrugs. “So it’s good to be home!” Now, he spots Brock, and as soon as he does the boy runs at him and attaches himself to Jesse’s leg like a child much younger would. “Hey, honey,” Jesse says, gathering him into his arms. “Told you I’d be back. Did you have fun while I was away?” Brock nods, still clinging. “Alright, well, let me get in the door,” Jesse teases him, slowly moving inside as Mr. White follows him. “Did you miss me?”

Brock clings a little tighter. 

“Apparently the answer is yes,” Jesse says with a grin, looking over at Mr. White.

“Hey, Brock,” the older man greets, and Brock lets go of Jesse long enough to run over to him and offer him a hug as well, which he reluctantly accepts. 

“Well, I’d better head back and let you guys have your reunion,” Donya teases. She leans down and presses a kiss to Brock’s forehead. “Bye, Brock.”

“Bye, Donya,” he replies, waving to her.

When she’s walked out the door, Brock starts to slowly go back to normal, moving away from Jesse and going over to sit on the couch and watch the TV. Jesse’s back; Jesse’s back and everything is okay for right now.

Jesse and Mr. White join him, with Jesse kicking up his feet and looking ahead as Brock curls into him. Jesse turns to his partner and grins widely.

“It’s good to be home.”


	22. Chapter 22

_“Que linda me la traiga Cuba,  
La reina de la Mar Caribe.  
Cielo sol no tiene sangre allí,  
y que triste que no puedo vaya,  
Oh va, oh va, va…”_

“I think I’m gonna start looking for a new school for Brock,” Jesse tells Walt over coffee the next morning. Brock hasn’t woken up yet, and he keeps his voice low to keep it that way. “Another letter about how I ought to send Brock to a therapist.”

“What makes you so against the whole idea?” Walt inquires.

“Back at Wynne, they made me go to a counselor when my aunt died. All the dude’s questions ended up being about why I wasn’t doing any of my work at school. Barely anything _about_ my aunt at all. I walked out of the whole thing feeling worse than I did walking in. ‘Cause I mean… She was the one person who actually seemed to think that I did anything well.” He trails his fingers over his mug, a black-and-red Temple mug.

“Not all therapists are like that, though,” Walt points out. “It could help, if he just needs someone to talk to…” Jesse rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, ‘cause I totally see _you_ going to therapy, like… ever.” He pauses, then concedes, “All right. I’ll consider it at least.” He sits back in his chair.

The phone’s shrill ring cuts into the silence, and the automated voice announces, “Call from A. Cantillo.”

“Good God, it’s like 4 in the morning in ABQ. What the hell?” Jesse grumbles, before he gets up and picks up the cordless phone, putting it to his ear. “Morning, Andrea.”

“Hi, Jesse. Sorry to call so early, I just know that I… haven’t in a while, you know? So I’m calling now.”

“You’re talking really fast. Are you strung out?”

“No! Just couldn’t sleep! Can I talk to Brock now?”

“He isn’t up yet.” Jesse considers telling her to call back, either later in the day or when she isn’t obviously high, but gives in. “I’ll go wake him up. Give me a second.”  
He puts the call on hold and walks over to the table, slamming his fist against it. Walt’s head jerks up.

“Jesse, what the hell…”

“Forget it,” the younger man barks, before moving to the stairs and walking up them in a swift motion, skipping a few and focusing on not letting his anger show by the time he gets to the top.

He makes his way into Brock’s room, where the boy is curled up on his side, clutching a teddy bear, his blanket haphazardly wrapped around him.

“Brock?” Jesse calls. He reaches out and gently nudges him in the side with the palm of his hand. One eyelid opens, then the others, and the boy snuggles sleepily into his blanket. 

“Time to get up, angel,” Jesse whispers, “Your mommy’s on the phone.” Brock sits up slowly and climbs off his bed, before following Jesse downstairs. He hands him the phone with a smile. “Not too long, though, you have to get ready for school soon, okay?” Brock nods in agreement. 

“Hi Mom,” he says into the phone.

When he has wandered into the living room with the phone, Jesse lets out a loud hiss.

“One day he’s _not_ gonna want to bother talking to her, and it’s not gonna be my fucking fault!”

“Well, Jesse, obviously she’s got some,” Walt begins, but Jesse rounds on him and cuts him off.

“Andrea is my fucking business!” he snaps, before catching his breath and dragging his hands over his face. “Sorry. I just… don’t even know.” He let his arms flop to his sides. “What really pisses me off is that she’s so much better than this. She loves Brock, adores him. But this whole situation she’s in is just…” He pauses and sits back down, wordlessly going back to drinking his coffee. 

About fifteen minutes later, Brock returns with the phone.

“She wants to talk to you.”

Jesse accepts the phone from Brock and brings it to his ear.

“Hey, listen, what’s with all of these weird call times, late and night and crazy o’ clock in the morning? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy, huh?” Jesse’s voice begins to rise, and Walt looks from he to Brock and back again, before standing up and moving over to the boy.

“Hey, Brock, why don’t you show me that new game you just got? What was it called?” Brock’s eyes light up.

“It’s like a racing game,” he replies quickly, “Okay, come see.” He leads Walt upstairs, as Jesse shoots him a grateful look.

“Too busy to talk to your own kid?” Jesse continues. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Hey, listen, Jesse. You don’t get the right to judge me. You’re not so perfect yourself, so no reason to get all high-and-mighty on me. I’m fine. Just busy. I’m happy with Rick. We’re renting a house together. I’m not using. Stop trying to guilt me for leaving you! Stop using Brock to try and make me feel guilty!”

“Is _Rick_ the reason you only call when no one else is awake?” The question is quiet, but intended to hit its target cleanly. It must have.

“I’m done with this conversation.” A dial tone rings in Jesse’s ear, and he drags one hand over his face and replaces the phone on its console.

He turns and starts to walk up the stairs.

“Brock!” he calls. “Time to get ready for school!”


	23. Chapter 23

It is a week before Christmas when Jesse, smiling, inquires of Brock what he’s hoping for from Santa.

The boy quickly dives into a list: “Toy cars! More Legos! Uh, cool G.I. Joe tank?”  
Jesse grins, handing him a piece of paper and telling him to write a letter that Jesse promises to mail, but will actually be using as a reference guide when he goes shopping.

“And, uh, Jesse?” Brock’s expression is a little sheepish.

“Yeah?”

“Promise you won’t think it’s super girly?”

Jesse chuckles.

“Fire away.”

Brock cocks his head to the side and hesitantly adds, “A dollhouse?”

Jesse chuckles and tussles Brock’s hair. 

“Put all of that down. I’m sure it’ll be no problem.”

***

“So, uh, Mr. White,” Jesse ventures the next day while Brock is at school. “I have a dilemma. Do you remember back when I was a kid, or when you were a kid I guess, when they had like, really cool antique dollhouses?”

Walt looks up from his coffee and paper.

“You’re a little old for a dollhouse, aren’t you Jesse?”

“Not for me. For Brock.”

“Okay. And?”

“And, all of the ones in the stores seem to be A – crappy or B – pink. Or C – all of the above.”

“Well, ‘dollhouse’ tends to be usually synonymous with ‘girl’,” Walt replies. He fields a glare from Jesse, before raising his hands defensively. “Traditionally.”

“Yeah, well, I need to find a…” Jesse pauses, and Walt almost sees the lightbulb appear above his head. “Mr. White,” he says with a grin, “We need to go to the hardware store.”

***

Walt decides he isn’t going to ask why Jesse has insisted on storing six blocks of wood in his basement. He figures that whenever Jesse decides to let him on his “brilliant” plan, he will. Not only that, it feels pretty much beneath him to ask.

Eventually, however, he gives in and asks.

“What’s your plan, Jesse?”

“Brock and I are going to build it. Well, mainly me, the dangerous parts at least. But he’ll help.”

Walt half-nods.

“Father-son bonding?”

“Exactly. I have no idea what this will look like at the end, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

Walt smiles at Jesse. He tries not to think about how this will likely be his last Christmas, and he won’t be spending it with his family – well, that’s not quite true; he won’t be with Skyler and the kids, but Jesse and Brock are beginning to feel like a family all their own.

“I think it’ll look good, Jesse.”

“I’m hopeful,” the younger man replies with a chuckle. “Otherwise I’m going to look like an idiot in front of Brock.”

***

Five days before Christmas, the Pinkmans receive a huge brown box in the mail.   
It requires both Walt and Jesse to shove it up into the living room from the porch.  
Jesse tilts his head down to read the return address.

“It’s from my parents,” he declares with a gasp.

“What did they send you? A bomb?” Walt replies dryly.

Jesse rolls his eyes and goes into the kitchen, fishing out a pair of scissors, as he has refused to purchase a box cutter.

Ten minutes and a few superficial cuts to his palm later, the box is open and the two men look inside.

“It’s presents for Brock,” Jesse enthuses, impressed despite himself. He sticks his hand into the box a little further and takes out a few smaller boxes, reading the tags. “And for me.” He fishes out another. “For _us_.” Jesse grins. “Guess we better put these under the tree, huh?”

“I suppose you better call your parents, too,” Walt suggests, and Jesse nods.

“Well, there’s still time to send them a card and get them something off Amazon,” he points out, “Then I can call them Christmas Day – they’re busy on Christmas Eve with all the family over.” He breathes in, remembering the days before he’d gotten kicked out, when he still used to run around playing with cousins and sampling little appetizers – he’ll have to figure out how to make those mini breaded hot dogs – and getting wrapped up in all the ceremony. “Hey, y’know, if you want, we could have your son stay a couple days, if you want.”

Walt considers it. Really considers it.

“No,” he answers finally. “I want him to remember me as I was… before.”

Jesse knows better than to argue with him on this.

“Suit yourself. If you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” Walt replies, a little too sharply. “But… Thank you, anyway, for the offer.”

***

Later that night, Walt and Jesse drift off to sleep mid-conversation. Jesse cannot recall exactly what they had been talking about, but one second he’s replying and the next his eyes are opening at a rustling sound in the hallway.

A little bit of light slowly stretches in through a crack in the door. Jesse squints up at it for a moment before he realizes that Brock is standing there.

“Hey, Brock,” he calls sleepily, sitting up. “Come in. What’s wrong?”

As Brock steps further into the light, Jesse realizes he’s flushing a little bit.

“Scary dream,” he admits, then pauses before asking, “Can I sleep in here?”

“Sure,” Jesse replies. He shifts over and pats a place on the mattress, before turning back to his sleeping partner. He remembers the “coda” he had Walt agree to, but it seems pretty cruel to kick him out of his own bed.

And at this point, who would they be fooling anyway?

“Watch out,” he murmurs to Walt, “We’ve become a trio.” By which he means, _please God if you engage in nude sleepwalking or anything of the sort that will traumatize Brock, I will lock you in the closet_. Walt gives a sleepy murmur of agreement and snuggles closer to Jesse, and Jesse shrugs, before Brock creeps in and lays down next to him, cuddling a pillow. “You okay?” Jesse asks. “I’m gonna go back to sleep but uh – y’know where I am.” 

“Yeah,” Brock mumbles, closing his eyes, “’Night Dad.” Jesse’s heart leaps in his throat as he closes his own eyes. _Yeah, it’s all going to work out all right._


	24. Chapter 24

Christmas Eve rolls around, and the three set to work decking the tree out with extra ornaments and tinsel.

Walt watches it all with a bittersweet longing, and participates when Brock badgers him into it.

“You’re our family, too,” Brock tells him.

Donya, Gabby and Shaina stop over that night around seven, not such a formal gathering as a “Christmas party” per se, but a quiet get together where they all toss back some eggnog and eat Christmas cookies.

“Thank you for humoring the addict,” Jesse says with a grin as he points out that it is a non-alcoholic eggnog.

“Hello,” Donya chimes in, “Muslim, here. Humoring the Muslim, too.”

“And the under-twenty-one!” Shaina points out. “One more year.”

“So really,” Gabby sums up, “It would have consisted of myself and Professor White getting smashed.”

“Professor White,” Walt muses, tipping back his glass, “I like it.”

“And I,” Shaina says proudly, “have been chosen to be his intrepid TA for General Chem.”

“Snaps for Shaina,” Jesse replies with fake enthusiasm, and snaps his fingers.

“You’re ruining my moment,” Shaina grouses. “Jerk.”

Jesse puts on a look of mock regret. 

“Are you excited, Brock?” Gabby inquires, and the boy nods eagerly.

“I can’t _wait_. Christmas is like the best day _ever_.” 

“Do you know what you’re getting?”

Brock shakes his head.

“Not yet.” Brock looks up at Jesse and inquires, “What’d you ask Santa for, Jesse?”

“A box set of _Supernatural_ ,” Jesse replies, looking over at Walt with a wink. 

“Mr. White?” Brock presses, “What about you?”

“Socks. And chemicals,” Jesse cracks, and Walt rolls his eyes.

“Hopefully not together,” Shaina points out, “No one wants a pair of radioactive socks.”

***

By Walt and Jesse’s clock, it is exactly 5:14AM when Brock tears out of his own room and runs into theirs, shaking them awake.

“Jeez, Brock, what is it?” Jesse murmurs, sitting up and wondering if there’s a fire for a few moments before he remembers. Of course. Brock would not get nearly so excited about a fire. Presents, on the other hand…

“Jesse! Jesse! Jesse!” Brock yells, pulling on his arm. Jesse knows the likelihood of Brock going back to bed is nil, so he turns and shoots an apologetic glance at Walt, who doesn’t see it as he has buried himself under a pillow.

“We can sleep later,” Jesse announces, laughing as he removes the pillow and turns to Brock. “Give us five minutes, sweetheart. Go get dressed. We’ll be right over.” Brock obliges and runs with just as much energy back into his room.

“Good God, Jesse,” Walt murmurs, and Jesse laughs loudly. 

“My kid. Gotta love him.” He yawns and rubs at his eyes. “Even on three hours sleep.”

“Yeah, well,” Walt mumbles. “Whose fault was that?”

“You kept distracting me,” Jesse says with a grin. “I can only hope Brock overheard nothing and did not come to the conclusion that Santa was doing something with a reindeer.”

Walt reluctantly sits up and pulls a new shirt on.

“We were pretty quiet. Thank you for the profoundly disturbing mental image, however.”

“It’s what I do.”

Jesse leans in and gives Walt a peck on the cheek. It’s odd, this domestic bliss, the two of them of all people. It seems as if it positively shouldn’t be, but maybe that is exactly why it is. Mr. White is somehow the one person who never left. Who always came back.

“We better get ready,” Jesse tells him, and they finish getting dressed before Jesse walks down the hall and calls into Brock’s room, “We’re ready!”

It’s only a few seconds after that that Brock bounds down the stairs at such a frenzied pace that Jesse is afraid he’ll trip and fall. He makes it, though, and arrives at the bottom with a huge smile as he takes in the multicolored lights and stacks of presents.

“Wow!” Brock exclaims. When Walt and Jesse make it to the bottom, Jesse holds up a hand in caution.

“Wait ‘til I get the camcorder out.”

Walt looks at him and laughs, a little meanly.

“The camcorder?”

“Shush your face, Mr. White.”

Jesse runs into the other room and takes out a camcorder that doesn’t look entirely dissimilar from the one Walt had used to tape his “confession” so long ago. He cannot recall the fate of that one; maybe he’d smashed it up with the tape, destroyed it as he’d done so many things of Jesse’s.

But today he won’t think of that.

Jesse turns a dial and starts up the tape.

“Hey all, it is December 25, 2011. I am Jesse Pinkman and this here,” he zooms in on Walt, “is Mr. White annnnnddd,” he turns the camera, “this is Brock. Say hi, Brock.”  
The boy waves at the camera.

“All right!” Jesse exclaims, putting the camera on a shelf so he can keep his hands free. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Brock tears into his gifts like a tornado – from Jesse, first, comes a pile of toys, little cars, plastic tanks, action figures, a couple of board and computer games, and a huge stuffed teddy bear. 

Brock is overcome, wanting to open each and every one and play with them already, but Jesse manages to redirect him to a gift from Walt, a little chemistry set f the baking-soda volcano variety, which Brock reviews with interest.

“I’m going to give the G.I. Joes chemical warfare,” Brock declares, and Jesse is already envisioning the damage to the carpet, but he applauds Brock’s ingenuity regardless.

Next are the gifts from Jesse’s parents.

Brock unwraps a few packages to find hardcover volumes of _The Wind in the Willows_ , the first few _Harry Potter_ books, _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , and _Bridge to Terebithia_.

Jesse leans in and picks up the last book, noting that it looks a little more used than the others, and blinks as he opens the inside cover and finds his name written in messy script.

“This is my copy,” he tells Brock with a grin. “Read this when I was… twelve or thirteen. It’s great.”

Brock smiles up and him and takes the book, before flipping through it.

“What’s it about?”

“A girl and a boy… the boy’s name is Jesse, actually, I think, but he’s called Jess – they’re friends, and they kind of create a world for themselves. It takes place back in the ‘70’s.”

“Cool,” Brock replies, placing it near the other unwrapped gifts. As he sorts begins to sort through some of his toys, Jesse opens the remaining packages to find gift-cards and a couple of dress shirts and ties for himself and Walt. 

As he’s trying to figure out when he will need to wear one particular tie, Walt nudges him and hands him a small package. He opens it to find a dog-tag on a chain. It reads: _Walter Hartwell White, Jesse Bruce Pinkman, 2011._

Jesse grins.

“Too sweet,” he says, and wraps Walt in a hug before handing him a slightly larger package. Walt opens it and uncovers a little ceramic beaker with engraving that reads: _Je + SS + E + WW ≥ ♥_

“Yeah, it’s totally corny,” Jesse says before Walt is done reading it. The older man rolls his eyes and gives Jesse a little nudge on the shoulder.

“Thank you. Oh, yeah, and,” Walt hands Jesse a DVD of _Supernatural_. “Didn’t get a chance to wrap it.”

“Season 4!” Jesse exclaims. “Awesome!” He looked over at Brock. “And… a few more for you.” He hands the boy a couple more gifts, ones mailed up from Albuquerque by Andrea and her grandmother. Brock opens them to reveal a Lego set and some toy cars. “And,” Jesse says as he looks at Brock, “Since Santa forgot to bring you that dollhouse, I was thinkin’ we would build it. Together.”

Brock lights up and runs at Jesse, hugging him.

“Thank you!” he murmurs as he clings to him. “I love you Daddy.” Jesse has to stop himself from tearing up as he reaches down and tussles the boy’s hair.

“I love you too, Brock,” he whispers. “Merry Christmas.” Walt smiles from his spot, and Jesse loops an arm over his shoulder. “Love you, too. Merry Christmas, Mr. White.”

“Merry Christmas, Jesse.”

***

Jesse picks up the cordless phone and dials a number, before holding his breath as it rings.

A familiar voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom. It’s Jesse.”

“Oh!” Her voice sounds surprised. “Hello, Jesse. It’s good to hear from you.”

“I wanted… to thank you for all the gifts. Especially Brock’s. He’s really psyched.”

“Well,” Mrs. Pinkman begins. “I wanted to… I’m glad you like them. How has your Christmas been?”

“Great! It’s just me, Mr. White and Brock, taking it easy.”

Mrs. Pinkman hesitates.

“Jesse, isn’t it a little odd to you that you’re in a relationship with the man and you still call him ‘Mr. White’?”

Jesse chuckles.

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“How is Brock?”

“He’s great. We’re gonna build a dollhouse!”

“That’s great, Jesse.”

Jesse pauses, realizing he doesn’t really have that much to talk with his mother about. But somehow, it’s okay.

“Anyway. I better go, but I wanted to thank you… And… I… well, I hope we could kinda talk again sometime.”

“That’d be great, Jesse.”

“Have an awesome Christmas. Tell Dad and Jake I said hello.”

“I’ll do that. Have a good Christmas, Jesse.”

***

Later that night, the phone rings.

Jesse picks it up, with some trepidation.

“Hi, Andrea.”

There’s a sigh on the other end.

“Listen, Jesse. Before anything else… I want to apologize for the other day. I was having a … bad day and I took it out on you. You… were right. Again. I’ve… been a pretty crappy mother recently.”

Jesse gives a little, “Hmmm,” and he hears Andrea sigh again.

“Things have been a little crazy out here. And not going quite like I expected, or how I wanted it to. But… I have to figure it out, Jesse. I’m not doing it because I don’t love you and Brock. I need… just time. But I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Jesse softens.

“It’s okay, Andrea. Just be careful. There’s a lot of users and abusers out there.”

She laughs bitterly.

“I’ve noticed. And… you be careful, too.”

“Thank you. You wanna talk to Brock?”

“Yes… Please. And Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas. And I love you.”

“I love you too, Andrea. Merry Christmas.”


	25. Chapter 25

December rolls into January before Jesse and Brock have any time to put their construction plan into action.

Meanwhile, more requests come in from Brock’s teacher to enroll him in therapy, and Jesse eventually gives in. 

He finds one that comes highly recommended, and makes an appointment for the following week, before trying to brush it out of his mind.  
Walt readies himself for his upcoming semester as an adjunct. He’s forgone PowerPoints in favor of old-fashioned writing on the chalkboard.  
Jesse manages to, with much prodding and begging, convince Walt to go to an oncologist. The doctor doesn’t bat an eye at their arrival together as a couple, and that makes a wary Jesse warm to her.

“Well, Mr. White,” Dr. Kemp begins after she’s poked and prodded him for a while. “I’m sorry to say that the prognosis seems about the same as your doctor in Albuquerque told you. But I do want you to keep checking in, because, though this is medicine, there isn’t any one-hundred percent way to predict the future. There is always still hope. It’s no reason to not take care of yourself.”

Walt blinks.

“That’s all well and good,” he tells her, “But I’m going to die. Why bother spending my last months choking down pills and worrying about exactly how badly I’m doing from this week to the next?”

Jesse puts his hand on Walt’s shoulder, out of instinct, maybe to remind himself that the man’s not leaving him just yet. 

“Mr. White,” Dr. Kemp replies, “All I can do is recommend that you keep to this regimen, and we can try and work around and make things as comfortable for you as we can. Ultimately, however, it’s your decision whether to listen to me or not.”

Jesse sighs as they leave, though it’s not news to him that it’s impossible to make Walt do anything that he doesn’t want to do.

***

Jesse sits in the waiting room at Dr. Diamond Parker’s office, fingers together as he twiddles them, sighing out, looking around at the other kids and their families, wondering what brought each of them here. Has he really screwed up badly enough with Brock to warrant him needing to come here?

“Mr. Pinkman?”

Jesse rises and walks into the room, where Brock is sitting on the floor playing with a set of toy cars.

The psychologist is a tall, slender black woman with her hair pulled into one long braid. 

“Hey, Brock,” she calls, “Would you be okay with playing in the other room while I talk with your dad?” After a few moments, Brock acquiesces and moves into the new room, a little conference room off to the side, cut off by a door but visible through a large pane of glass. Jesse can see that there’s a large TV and another array of toys available.

When Brock is out of earshot, Jesse inquires worriedly, “:Is he okay?”

“Take a seat, Mr. Pinkman.” Jesse does. “I hope I can set your mind at ease – Brock’s doing fine. Now, any child can benefit from therapy, don’t get me wrong – and Brock does   
have things going on in his life that he might need to talk about. However, every child does – nowadays, so many children are dealing with things like divorce and separation, and it can be hard on them. But Brock seems happy, well-adjusted, and very intelligent for his age. He seems to have a good relationship with you, too, and it’s not very common to see such a good bond between a stepfather and stepson – in a lot of cases, there’s some resentment there. As far as I can see, not the case here.” She smiles at Jesse. “However,” she pauses, “I did want to say that I think you might benefit from talking to someone, professionally.”

“Me?” Jesse raises an eyebrow.

“Well, Brock told me about your partner and his illness. It can be very hard to go through something like that alone.”

Jesse looks down at the ground, figuring she doesn’t know the half of it.

“I probably do need therapy. Like, goddamned years of therapy,” he admits, “But it’d be way too late to start now. I got screwed up years ago.”

“It’s never too late to start,” Dr. Parker tells him, “It’s up to you, but if you would feel comfortable with it, I could see you both, or arrange for someone else from my practice you feel comfortable with. We work with both children and adults.”

Jesse looks around.

“Would I get to play with the toys?”

“Sure. If you want to.”

Jesse smiles.

“I’ll… Uh, think about it.”

***

Jesse bounds into the house, humming the theme from Rocky.

“They’re finally committing you?” Walt comments dryly from his spot on the couch, and Jesse laughs.

“Nah, then I’d be humming ‘They’re Coming to Take Me Away’!” he quips. “Nah, the lady says Brock is just fine.” He reaches down and tussles Brock’s hair. “Which, of course, we knew all along.” He grins. “On a totally different note,” Jesse begins, then hesitates, before putting his hand on his chin. “Somebody in this household is turning, what, fifty-four, at the end of this month. You wanna do anything?”

Walt looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

“Just nothing with strippers, Jesse.”


	26. Chapter 26

“Okay, and then we’re just going to sand down the roof a little bit,” Jesse instructs Brock.

“Then we can paint it?” Brock asks eagerly. They’ve been at work for an hour on the dollhouse and so far have made a general skeleton of the building, as well as a separate curved roof, as of yet minus shingles.

“Definitely,” Jesse agrees, holding the roof at eye-level. “What color do you want it?”

“Green!” Brock exclaims. “Dark green.” 

“Dark green it is,” Jesse agrees. “But let’s take a break for lunch, all right? If we stay down here too long, Mr. White will forget what we look like.”  
Brock giggles and heads towards the basement steps. 

When they emerge at the top, Walt looks up from the textbook that he’s been flipping through and marking with Post-Its.

“What’re you doing, Mr. White?” Brock inquires.

“Preparing for my class,” he replies, “Figuring how much time to take on each of the chapters.”

“Spend the most time on the coolest ones,” Brock suggests, “Like the ones where you blow things up.”

Walt replies with a nervous laugh, thinking to himself _If he only knew._

“Alright, you two,” Jesse cuts in, “Lunch. What’s our plan?”

“I was thinking we could order pizza,” Walt suggests. “With dipping sticks.”

Jesse grins.

“Yeah. Okay. With dipping sticks. So how many people are going to be in your class?”

“Twenty-five,” Walt replies, “In Organic. And sixty-three in General Chem.”

“That’s a lot,” Brock pipes up, “Will you have to mark that many papers?”

Walt nods somberly. 

“Well, Shaina will be helping me. It’ll be pretty time-consum--” he starts, before breaking off into a coughing fit. Jesse leans in and rubs Walt’s back as Brock takes a little step back, concern on his small face. 

When the coughing has subsided, Walt continues with what he was saying, something about the hassles of being a teacher, before Jesse walks off to go call for the pizza.  
Brock, meanwhile, steps up to Walt.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” he tells him quietly.

Walt feels the biggest surge of guilt that he can recall. 

“Well, thank you, Brock. But I’m okay. See? I’m alright.” He gestures to himself, and Brock smiles and looks back at him.

“You need to _stay_ okay,” he informs him firmly, before turning and walking back in the living room, in search of Jesse.

Walt blinks, puts his textbook down, and rises, following the others over to the other room, taking a seat on the couch. He picks up the remote and changes to some cooking competition, but it doesn’t matter what they watch.

***

The first day of classes creeps up on Walt the same way each noteworthy day has done so this year.

The sound of his alarm jars him awake, and he finds the other side of his bed empty. As he shuffles over to the closet to pick out a suitable first-day outfit, he can hear the shower running. Jesse has gotten the jump on him.

Carrying a blue tie and gray shirt and pants, he finds Brock in the hall, head buried in his portable game system. 

“Hi, Mr. White,” he greets, not looking up.

“Morning, Brock,” Walt replies. “You ready for school?”

“Nah, not yet,” Brock says, “I have to finish beating this boss, first.” He walks back into his bedroom. 

“Well, make sure you’re not late,” Walt offers awkwardly. When did he miss some essential lesson in raising kids, despite having a son of his own? Maybe he’d just left this part of it to Skyler.

Brock doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“Yeah, I got all my clothes set up, Mr. White,” he calls back from his room.

A few moments later, Jesse emerges from the bathroom in a black T-shirt and jeans.

“Snazzy tie, Mr. White,” he encourages, “You’re going to look all professional. And maybe no one will throw paper airplanes in this class.” He grins. “Then again, some people at Temple are pretty odd. They’re generally respectful, though.”

Walt raises an eyebrow.

“Strange… how?”

Jesse grins widely.

“You’ll find out soon, won’t you?”

***

“Welcome to General Chemistry. You will be learning about the process of change. Matter changes. People change, too. Nothing stays the same.” He zones out on his own introduction and thinks about how true the words are. He’s changed, oh God, he’s changed. For the worse and now, maybe, for the better. He doesn’t know if he can undo all the things he’s done, even if he fully commits to it. It almost seems like cheating, somehow, yelling “not!” at the end of a sentence.

He continues, however, with an explanation of the syllabus; however, it’s interrupted by another wicked coughing fit. The students in the class look at him with wide eyes, and a few whisper to each other, until Shaina, who he’d forgotten was even there, stands and looks at him for permission. He nods and walks out the door, slipping into the hallway.

As he does, he hears her continue, “Hi. I’m Shaina, the TA. As Professor White was saying, we’re going to be discussing Chapter Seven the week of April the 8th, but there’s a college holiday on the 10th, so we’ll be skipping that day. Use it to study, not to get wasted with your friends – yes, Philip?”

“Is he okay?” Walt hears a young man’s voice ask.

“He’s fine. Are _you_ okay, Philip?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. Let’s move on.” By this point, Walt’s coughing has stopped, and he walks back in. Shaina hands him back the syllabus and takes her seat.

 _Well,_ Walt thinks, _for better or worse, here we go._


	27. Chapter 27

“Go ahead and state your name, major, and what you hope to get out of this class.” Jesse looks up and finds it a little odd to realize that the man teaching him is probably younger than he is.

The roll call arrives at Jesse.

“Uh. I’m Jesse. I’m a sophomore – I think.” A few people chuckle good-naturedly; others before him had also added “I think” to their class ranks, or declared that they were “super, super seniors”. “And what I hope to get out of this class is, well… This class is about American Literature, so I guess I’d like to learn, uh, more about that.”

He interlaces his fingers and looks down. It’s taken him a year and a half to have the balls to speak up in class or ask questions without having a near panic attack, even though he’s done well in all of his classes. He still doesn’t entirely trust himself, but he considers what he’s read, staring at the internet late at night as he looked for tips on raising Brock. Whatever he models, Brock will mimic, so Jesse needs to model confidence.

Easier said than done.

Jesse gives a timid nod as the roll moves to the girl behind him.

***

The green paint curls over the wooden roof, filling out the little makeshift shingles that Jesse has attached to it. Brock is holding the brush, while Jesse steadies the roof, smiling encouragement and complimenting how even it all looks.

Jesse considers it; he can’t really remember spending time with his father. Not while he was older, at least. When he was a kid, really young, there were the normal games of catch and football, but they had fallen by the wayside when Jesse had gotten to be about ten or eleven. His father had been too busy, and Jesse had already been considered a disappointment by then. Never on time, lackluster grades and wasted potential.

He’d definitely never gone down the cellar and built a dollhouse with his father, that’s for sure.

“Looks good, Brock,” Jesse tells him, moving his fingers to get them out of the way of the brush. “It’s coming along great, isn’t it?” Brock nods, focusing on his task.

In a few minutes, the roof has been painted, and Jesse slowly places it to the side. He looks at Brock and grins when he sees a big dark green splotch on his left arm.

“Looks like you painted yourself, kid,” Jesse tells him with a chuckle. “All right, go ahead up and wash up, okay?”

Brock nods and walks up the basement steps. Jesse follows him, running into Walt when he clears the door. Brock slips off in the direction of the kitchen, and Jesse takes the chance to loop an arm over Walt’s shoulder.

“How’s it going?” he asks, and Walt replies with a little “so-so” motion with his hand.

“We have a quiz on Thursday, so I guess we’ll see if they’re ready for it.”

“I’m sure you’ve prepared them well,” Jesse teases, and Walt coughs.  
It’s another one of those hacking coughs, and he reels forward towards his palm before hiding it behind his back when he’s done. Jesse figures it’s a vain attempt to hide that he’s coughing up blood.

The younger man doesn’t comment, however, other than to offer a little gentle pat on Walt’s shoulder and continue the conversation.

“So should we bet? Over-under on the exam grades?”

Walt shakes his head.

“It was bad enough back when I had to be a fake gambler.” Jesse cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah. That was Skyler’s cover story for the money. That I was wrapped up in illegal gambling.” Jesse treads carefully; it’s the first time Walt has mentioned Skyler and his family since he arrived on Jesse’s doorstop. Rather than chasing that topic, Jesse smiles.

“Can’t see yourself sitting on a train and singing that ‘The Gambler’ song? Y’know, Spencer’s used to have a little hamster that would sing that.”

Walt rolls his eyes.

“Only you would identify how you knew songs based on whether they were on some novelty item in Spencer’s.”

Jesse grins.

“I see why you love me,” he teases, and Walt scoffs and heads off towards the kitchen. “Yeah, yeah, try and deny it.” Jesse follows him, meeting up with Brock as he wipes off his hands. Not all of the paint has gotten washed off, but Jesse figures it’ll be gone when Brock showers the next morning. He’s conscious of trying to not be nit-picky, trying to make every effort to not be his parents.

“Okay, what do you guys want for lunch?” he inquires, “I was thinking of making pasta, or maybe steaks.”

Walt’s probably partial to the steaks, but Brock votes first and Jesse takes out a box of pasta and puts a pan over the burner. In the two years he’s been raising Brock, he’s gotten considerably better at cooking than those well-intentioned breakfasts he’d made for Jane.

It seems like so long ago.

“Take a seat in the dining room, you guys. I’ll bring it out when it’s done.” Brock heads out into the dining room, stopping off to grab his game system on the way. Walt lingers.

“Hey, Jesse,” he starts, and Jesse looks up from his stirring.

“Yeah?”

Walt seems to consider saying something, but he hesitates and then thinks better of it.

“Never mind,” he replies. He walks up, leans in and places a kiss to Jesse’s cheek, before walking out to the dining room.

***

Walt can’t put words to the discomfort he always feels upon being alone with Brock. It was worse at first, in the beginning of he and Jesse’s relationship, a nipping and suffocating dread, but it hasn’t completely floated away, either.

Some part of him thinks Jesse suspects. He must know, somewhere deep inside, knows it can’t have been a coincidence or fluke that sent Brock to the hospital when Gus “had to go”. But if he knows, why did he take Walt back in? Why be with him? Why _love_ him?

Walt can’t explain it.

“Hey, Mr. White,” Brock pipes up.

“Hey, Brock. Are you winning?”

_What happened?_

_I won._

“Yeah,” Brock replies, before hitting a key. “Oops. Not anymore. Something ate me.”

“What ate you?” Walt cranes his head to spot a “Game Over” message across the screen.

“Huge lizard,” Brock tells him, and Walt nods sympathetically.

“You just can’t win with big lizards.”

“Yes, I can.”


	28. Chapter 28

Walt can hear Jesse’s heartbeat as he wakes up on his fifty-fourth birthday. It’s not a bad way to wake up, a definite step up from the way he awoke the past three years. It had been lonely and quiet and dead. As dead as he’d been.

This day, his eyes open to see that Jesse has his arms looped around him, his head resting on Walt’s chest. 

It would have annoyed him, somehow, in the earlier days of their partnership. It’d have been too much pressure, too much of a burden. 

But now, Jesse stands on his own; he doesn’t need Walt, but wants him instead, not that Walt really understands why.

He’s fifty-four. He lets that realization dawn on him quietly. He hadn’t thought he’d see fifty-one. Fifty-one through fifty-three seem a bit of a wash, the glory days of Heisenberg fallen by the wayside but the peaceful twilight days with Jesse not yet begun.

There’s a pain in his chest, but he doesn’t know how much of that is medical and how much is psychological. It’s nearing the end, he knows that, but he’s not sure whether it’s good or bad. He’s not going out on top, with Heisenberg the most feared figure in the Southwest. He’s going out curled in the arms of his former student, his former partner.

Walt almost wishes he had the energy to find it humiliating, but he doesn’t. He’s so tired. He just wants to stay curled up next to Jesse.

Jesse stirs and yawns, slowly rising into a sitting position, looking over at Walt with a little cheeky grin. 

“Happy birthday,” he tells him. He leans in and gives Walt an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “What did you want for breakfast?”

Walt sighs, remembering how Skyler would make numbers for each age out of bacon as he progressed through the years. At the time, it had been another year accomplished. Now, it seemed like it had been fifty years sleepwalking, one alive. Another three half-dead and now… now what? He doesn’t know.

“Eggs?” he tells Jesse, “Eggs would be good.”

Jesse grins and salutes.

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Jesse leaps out of bed and heads down the stairs. Walt, figuring Jesse is going to do the cooking for him, rolls back over and curls up to the pillow. His skin still reverberates with Jesse’s touch, that soft stroke of his fingers that indicates love in a very different way than Skyler’s ever had. It’s not that he doubts Skyler had loved him, but it was simply… different. He doesn’t know how to explain it.

He decides he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

***

Walt scoops up a piece of scrambled egg and shoves it into his mouth as Jesse watches, the look in his eyes letting on that he wants Walt’s approval, as always.  
Jesse has gone over every detail with a fine-tooth comb. This would be the last birthday Mr. White would have, after all, and Jesse wants it to be a good one, a quiet and happy one.

Walt does seem satisfied with the meal, giving nods as he eats, and Jesse feels a swell of pride.

Brock, meanwhile, has been pulling apart a bagel as he watches the two.

“You’re having a party, right?” he asks, and Jesse nods.

“Nothing big. Just us, Donya, Gabby, and Shaina. You know, kind of the extended family.”

Brock grins.

“Are you gonna have a cake?”

Jesse looks over at Walt.

“Sure, I mean, if Mr. White wants one.”

Walt smiles, surprised.

“Sure. Cake’s good. Chocolate?”

“Sure,” Jesse replies eagerly. “I’ll buy one… Well, I’ll drive out to Wegman’s after I get out of class. They have a better selection. Your last class is over at four, right?” Walt nods. “And Brock’s out at 3:45. Shaina and Gabby are off at 4:30 and Donya’s off at three, so… let’s say, five, for the party?”

Walt shrugs.

“Whatever you want to do, Jesse. This is your plan, after all.”

Jesse grins.

“Yeah, but, y’know. I want to pull it off.” He grimaces. “That’s not a plan for later, by the way.”

Brock looks up.

“Huh?”

“If I have my way, Brock, you won’t understand that joke ‘til you’re thirty,” Jesse tells him. “Eat your bagel.”

***

“You know what it is – White and Pinkman, White and Pinkman, White and Pinkman…” Shaina sings as the group gathers around the cake, which has been adorned with a 5 and a 4, both of which are in various stages of melting. “All right, Prow,” she continues as she gestures to the cake, “Blow out your candles.”

“Prow?” Walt and Jesse ask in unison.

“I saw a movie about Kinsey, that guy who studied sex. His students called him ‘Prok’. So… Prow.”

Jesse shakes his head.

“Just make a wish and blow ‘em out before it’s a wax sculpture.”

Walt takes a deep breath, reels it in, and blows. He’s a little afraid that he won’t have the air in his lungs for it, that he’ll start hacking again and Jesse will have to come save him.  
But other than a little shortness of breath, it doesn’t happen. The flames disappear, and Jesse leans in to pull the candles off the cake.

“I hope you wished for something good,” Jesse teases.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’ll be granting those wishes sometime tonight,” Shaina snarks with a grin.

“There’s young ears!” Gabby chastises.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shaina quips, “He’ll learn it soon enough anyway. Or hear you two doing it and come to his own conclusions.”

***

“We have to be really quiet,” Jesse whispers in Walt’s ears. He has to wonder if this, today, might be the last time they are intimate together, before Walt is too sick to participate.   
Jesse presses his lips to Walt; the kiss is gentle and soothing, wiping out thoughts of mortality. Walt kisses back and his hands immediately go to Jesse’s hips.

“Jesse,” he moans, “My Jesse.”

“That’s right.” Jesse’s voice is raspy against Walt’s ears. “I’m yours.”

“Always mine,” Walt whispers back, “How are we doing on the quiet thing?”

Jesse covers his mouth to stifle a giggle, as he unbuttons Walt’s pants before pulling them down and then off.

“We must be wewy wewy quiet. We’re hunting wabbits.” He has to swallow another round of hysterics. Jesse had never thought that being with Mr. White could actually be _fun_ , and the realization is one that he doesn’t quite know where to file. So he pushes that to the back of his mind, near all thoughts of Walt’s eventual death.  
Instead, he pulls Walt’s underwear off, too, and reaches up to take off his own clothes. The lube sticks out on the nightstand, and he moves to pick it up, handing it to his partner. 

“What do you want to try tonight?” Jesse asks. “Your birthday, your choice.”

Walt muses on it.

“I don’t know. I don’t really have any deep, dark desires.” Jesse laughs ironically, and he corrects, “In the bedroom, at least. You have any ideas?”

Jesse grins widely.

“You could order me around.”

“Like, make you my servant?”

“Maybe we could role-play it,” Jesse continues enthusiastically. “Like those sultans who have harems. Just, uh, kinda quiet harems.”  
Walt laughs.

“Okay,” he replies. “I’m… Sultan White. And you’ve just been selected to become a member of my harem. You’re a willful young and supple prisoner of war, but I’ve decided that I’m going to break you.”

Jesse moans out and nods approvingly. Walt climbs off the bed and looks at his partner. 

“Kneel when you address me,” he declares. Jesse obliges, pushing himself off the bed and getting down on his knees, bowing his head.

“That’s good,” Walt says, “But I still think there’s rebellion in you. You will learn to obey my every whim. What do you say?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jesse whispers.

“You’re going to learn to serve me, and to like it. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir!” Jesse exclaims, feeling his cock throb.

Walt moves so that he’s standing behind Jesse, and in a quick motion he slaps Jesse’s ass. The younger man lets out a low grunt and juts forward.

“Well done. You are a very pleasing concubine. But it’s time to see what sort of skills you bring to the table.” Jesse nods and gestures for Walt to get back in front of him.

“This is my best skill, Sir,” Jesse replies submissively, leaning in to press his tongue against Walt’s hard cock. He doesn’t speak after that, just opens widely and takes him inside, focusing on the taste and texture of the older man’s skin.

He wonders if they’ll be able to do this, at least, towards the end.

He pushes that away as he takes his partner deeper, until it’s actually uncomfortable and it’s all he can think about. All senses are focused on the task at hand, the smell of him and the bittersweet taste, the sound of his moans and how it feels as he jerks and bucks.

Jesse’s jaw is aching, but he could stay here forever.

His hands move out to fondle the other man’s balls, eliciting a pleased, “Jesse, yes, yeah,” from his partner.

A trill of triumph rushes through him. The old quest to please Mr. White is alive and well in his heart, through his chest and up his spine.

He bobs on Walt’s cock, sucks harder, and with a low hiss, his partner cums. Jesse swallows easily, almost savoring it and licking his lips as he shifts back to a sitting position.

“Was that good for you, Sir?” he asks, bowing his head again, but not before batting his eyes at his old mentor.

Walt opens his mouth and lets out a satisfied groan. He leans back, laying his head on his hands. Jesse moves to lie next to him.

“You okay?” he asks, the roles forgotten.

“Yeah. Just… Tired. But good… Jesse…” He pauses. “Thank you.”

“For that? Sure. Anytime.”

“No, just… for this. For this year.”

Jesse smiles.

“You don’t say ‘thank you’ very often,” he points out, stretching out and propping his chin up on his hand. 

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”


	29. Chapter 29

“Ben Franklin felt that no matter what a person’s station in life was, they could become a ‘self-made man’, and go from rags to riches.”

Jesse listens as his professor talks, and he jots down a few notes but finds his mind occupied. Number one on his mental list is the therapy sessions he’s signed himself and Brock up for later that afternoon. He had figured in the end that it would probably help them both, but he’s still nervous, terrified about he’s actually going to say. Talk about Jane? About Gale? 

_Hell, if she knew the history between me and Mr. White, Dr. Parker would probably tell me to run a mile, cancer or not. And I just can’t do that._

He has already firmly decided to never breathe aloud a word about his suspicions about Walt and Brock. Brock, at this point, is perfectly safe around Walt, and for that matter, the two have never been totally alone together. He isn’t sure Walt would cotton to babysitting, anyway. And, anyway, that’s why he pays Donya and gives her a break in the rest for the house.  
That and the fact that the property’s a money laundering operation for his old drug profits.  
But that’s beside the point.

Then there’s Walt’s failing health. Jesse doesn’t really know what he’ll do when it gets bad. Back when it had been his aunt, he’d easily stopped coming to class in favor of two-thirds taking care of her and one-third smoking weed and watching porn, but he can’t do that now. He’s come too far and if he halts his education now, he’s not sure he’ll ever pick it up again.

More selfishly, he needs the distraction. The lecture halls and assigned readings and lunches at the Food Court, the hustle and bustle and anonymity of the school, the monotony of his admissions job, all help him deal, help him with his metamorphosis into someone he never thought he could be.

When he gets home, after therapy, he’ll draw up a couple of paragraphs on Ben Franklin.  
A little smile appears on his face. His parents would be astounded. Could this be their Jesse, doing his homework? On time, no less.

He wonders what Brock will want for himself when he’s older, and he again pledges to never be his parents. He’ll love Brock even if he stumbles and falls. But right now, picturing the boys bright eyes and shy smile, he can only picture happiness for his son.

***

Jesse and Brock’s appointments are staggered, Jesse’s first, and when Brock returns from school he will bring him by for his own session.

His hands are knotted in his lap, and Diamond smiles at him as she asks the first question.

“So, Jesse. What would you like to talk about?”

Where will he begin?

“Mr. White,” he says finally.

“That’s your partner?”

“Yeah,” Jesse mumbles. Diamond shifts, moves her pen slightly but doesn’t write. Something in the natural motion makes him feel more at home. “I call him Mr. White cause, well, he taught me back in high school – we never did anything back then, though. That’d be creepy.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Three months.”

“And… he’s sick?”

Jesse nods.

“Lung cancer. Terminal, y’know? This is his last year.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Jesse swallows.

“Not ready. Not at all.”

Diamond looks at him.

“It’s okay to feel that way, Jesse. Is anybody ready for someone they love to die?”

Jesse’s head goes into his hands.

“I don’t know. I know I’m not. I need him to stay.”

***

The dollhouse morphs into a finished product slowly, day by day, until the day Jesse returns to the basement to discover that there is no work left to be done on it, save to populate it with little tenants.

The dark green roof sits on top of a cut-out attic with a moveable flap; underneath are two little bedrooms, and at the bottom are a living room, dining room and a blue and white kitchen.

The people come next; the two find they’re on a roll and create them by hand. Brock designs a little version of himself, of Jesse, and of Mr. White and Andrea. They spend the next couple days building them; furniture soon joins it, and Andrea is placed on a little blue couch while Walt and Jesse are in the dining room. The miniature Brock, meanwhile, is placed in the attic, as if investigating it.

“It’s beautiful,” Jesse breathes, impressed. “You did great, Brock.” Brock leans in and lets Jesse tousle his hair, before he wraps his little arms around him and hugs him tight. “I’m so proud of you,” Jesse whispers, giving him a little squeeze. “Love you.”

***

Walt would be fooling himself if he said his class is watching with rapt attention. The first row is more-or-less following, and maybe the second row, but as far as he can tell the back rows are either playing Angry Birds or masturbating. Perhaps both.

Walt, however, soldiers on; the class hadn’t really done horrible on the first test, and considering that it’s only the week of February, they’ve gotten pretty far in the book so far.  
Shaina picks up the slack when he’s too tired to muster much enthusiasm, going over problems with the general intensity of a drill sergeant. He thinks back and tries to remember if, in his own days as a TA, he could get up this much excitement.

It’s all a blur.

So instead, he thinks of Jesse, and of the upcoming holiday. Walt never put much stock in Valentine’s Day, found it terribly commercial and tacky, a way to sell chocolate and big red hearts that didn’t even look like real hearts, anyway.

But this year, it seems like he should care. Like he should do something, mark the day, make it a nice one for Jesse. 

He ought to start planning.


	30. Chapter 30

“Ooh, look,” Jesse says excitedly, “There’s one of these that has… rum or something in it.” He immediately picks a chocolate out of the box and pops it in his mouth, putting a thumbs-up of approval in front of his face.

Brock peeks over with interest and picks up a chocolate that is filled with some kind of orange gooey-ness. 

“These are good, Mr. White,” he comments after taking a bite.

Walt nods, glad that his gift has gone over well.

He’d had trouble deciding what to get Jesse, or whether to get him anything at all, wondering whether it had been a hold-over from his time with Andrea that he wouldn’t want Walt to bring back.

Eventually he’d eschewed flowers (didn’t really want to bring up those connotations, either) and frilly cards in favor of chocolate, and unbeknownst to him, Jesse had come to the same conclusion.

Which has resulted in an overflow of boxes of chocolate.

“Are you going to give a Valentine to some special girl at school, Brock?” Jesse inquires, and Brock rolls his eyes.

“Ew,” he replies resolutely, “No.”

“What about Callie? You gonna give her a Valentine?”

Brock rolls his eyes again.

“She’s all right. For a girl.”

Jesse laughs.

“It’d be nice to be nine again, wouldn’t it?” He tousles Brock’s hair affectionately. “Stay this age forever, kid. You’re great.”

Jesse gazes over at Walt.

“Thanks for the candy, Mr. White. Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?” he asks.   
“Candlelight and all that? Yeah, I know, corny, but…”

“Sure,” Walt replies, to Jesse’s shock. “A dinner could be nice. Italian?”

Jesse grins. 

“Italian it is.”

***

The fact that the restaurant is located at Broad and Locust, in what Jesse explains to Walt is known as the “Gayborhood”, probably has something to do with why the waiter doesn’t blink at two men sitting across from each other on Valentine’s Day at a candlelit dinner. 

It hits Walt – this is it. Public. Well, sort of. It’s a little ridiculous to “come out of the closet” at fifty-four, especially when he’s not sure if he’s gay or even bi or just kind of experimental or desperate or something else, but he figures that’s what he’s doing. Not like it’s to his family, of course. His mother would have a “shit fit”, as Jesse calls it, and would never let him forget it. And his dad, if he’d lived? Who the hell knows? Walt had heard stories growing up, some kind of attempt to put together some mosaic portrait of who Roger Hartwell White had been, but it was all for naught. That blurry image of a dying man is all he’s got.

His son will have more, of course. Sixteen years if being raised by the man, followed by two of the occasional weekend and one more of receiving phone calls in Illinois.

Holly won’t have a thing, unless she gets something from Junior, the same passed-down stories to half-remember. She won’t get it from Skyler. Walt wouldn’t be surprised if all his photos had been taken strategically removed from the house, if he had become an unperson. He wonders what she’ll tell Holly when she asks who her father is. Who he was.

He chases the thought and looks down at his menu. Jesse will remember, at least. He seems insistent, stubbornly insistent, upon it.

“Would you two gentlemen like something to drink to start you off?” the waiter inquires. Walt looks at Jesse.

“Is wine alright?” he asks, mindful at last of Jesse’s sobriety in a way that isn’t condescending.

“Yeah, wine’s good. I’ll get whatever you’re ordering,” Jesse replies.

“Could I get a bottle of Asti Spumante, and two glasses?” Walt orders. Jesse smiles. 

“So, any appetizers, or do you need a minute?” the waiter asks.

“We’ll take a few minutes,” Walt replies. When the waiter disappears, Jesse grins widely.

“You’re really in your element, aren’t you?” he teases.

“Well, I try to keep everything classy, Jesse,” Walt teases back. “Do you know what you want?”

“Shrimp Rossini,” Jesse replies, after looking through the menu. Walt, after some consideration, decides to order a plate of mussels. The waiter comes back with their wine, and walks to the back yet again after taking their order.

“This is nice, Jesse,” Walt comments. “I think I’ve been on more dates with you than I’ve been on in my life otherwise.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Jesse teases, leaning in.

“Never said it was. But it’s worth taking note.” Walt thinks but doesn’t say that it’s astounding to him that anyone would choose to spend their Valentine’s Day with an angry old dying man as opposed to well, anybody else. It’s been Walt, after all, who’s been obsessed with the idea that only the strong survive, the best prevail, and he no longer fits the criteria so who is he now?

Apparently, he’s Jesse Pinkman’s date.

The food arrives, and the conversation slows as they dig into their meals. Walt feels content. The rest of the evening floats by. They drink wine and laugh and joke. Walt feels better than he has in months.


	31. Chapter 31

The next morning, Walt wakes up hacking up blood. His coughing wakes up Jesse in turn, and somehow Jesse half-carries Walt into the bathroom.   
He’s coughing so hard that Jesse is seized by a fear that maybe, somehow, he’ll literally cough up a lung or tear his esophagus or something. It might be the end.   
Jesse leans his arm on Walt’s shoulder, rubs his back as he coughs and retches. 

After what seems like an agonizingly long time, he stills. Regains his breath. There’s specks of blood all over the toilet where Walt has fallen to his knees.   
Brock appears in the doorway. 

“Mr. White? Are you okay?” 

The two heads turn. 

“Yeah, Brock. I’m fine. It’s okay.” 

Brock’s eyes move to Jesse.

“It’s all right, Brock. Can you start getting ready for school?” Jesse asks. “He’s just a little sick, okay?” 

Brock nods, and disappears a few moments later. Jesse sighs and puts his head in his hands. 

“Have you been taking your meds?” he mumbles. 

“No,” Walt replies bluntly. 

“What the fuck, Mr. White? Don’t you want to live?” Jesse hisses, trying not to let Brock hear but unable to control himself, feeling this slip entirely out of his hands. 

“Isn’t it up to me, Jesse? I’m going to die anyway!” 

“When have you ever given up, Mr. White? You’re the ballsiest person I know! Why would you just lay down and die?”  
Walt rises to his feet. 

“I’m not laying down, Jesse. I’m standing up. And walking out. This is not up for debate, Jesse.” He throws his hands up and walks back into the bedroom.   
Jesse grinds his nails into his palms. He controls his breathing. He wants to yell and scream, wants to demand, but Brock… Brock. 

He’ll pick this up once Brock is in school. Try to let Mr. White know how foolish he’s being. He was able to let it go before, when death hadn’t been staring them directly in the face. 

But now… now. 

Now it is really, way too real. The idea of Jesse waking up one day to Walt not being there. Waking up next to him like Jane. 

He doesn’t want it. Can’t take it. 

***  
Walt doesn’t apologize. Then again, other than that time in the hospital, has he ever? 

Jesse sulks while Brock is at school. He rants to Diamond. He eventually comes to the conclusion that he needs to let it go. 

At least for now. 

“After all,” Diamond reminds him, “You don’t have all that much time. Is this really that important in the long run?” 

So Jesse slips in that night and wraps his arms around Walt. Holds him close and mumbles, “Love you, Mr. White. Always love you.” He curls against him and blinks back the tears. “Always love you.” 

*** 

Two weeks later, Jesse receives a phone call from Andrea. He begins to tell her that he’ll go get Brock, but she cuts in, “I need… to tell you something, Jesse.”

“What?” he inquires. 

“I’m… Jesse. It’s done between us.” 

Jesse swallows. 

“What? Why? I thought… we were working it out.” 

“Jesse. Jesse… I’m pregnant. Three months. I need… I want a divorce.” 

Jesse’s throat goes dry. 

“What? How? I mean…” He can’t even tell himself he’s that surprised. They’ve been living apart for two years and are both in other relationships. But something about this knocks him hard in the stomach. “You… I mean. I… understand. But… I thought we were going to try and see…” 

“I just… With this, now, I can’t. I have to go all in on this. I still… I still care about you, but I’ve got to try and make this work with Rick.” Her voice hesitates on the line. “And I can’t do that if I’m still married to you.” 

He swallows. 

“I’m… with somebody, too,” he admits to her. “Maybe it’s for the best that we split but… What about Brock?” 

Andrea’s voice breaks. 

“He should stay with you. I don’t want to yank him out of there and bring him here. It’s… complicated here.” 

“But you know,” Jesse cautions quietly, “It’s gonna be complicated for the baby then, too.” 

“Yeah,” she mumbles. 

“Just…” There’s something in her voice that doesn’t sit right with Jesse. Somehow the next words just come. “Listen. If you ever need… Just a safe place… Call me and I’ll fly you home, okay?” 

There’s a long silence. 

“Yeah. Okay. Listen. Jesse, I gotta go, okay? Take care of yourself. And tell Brock I love him, so much.” 

The dial tone sounds.


	32. Chapter 32

Brock’s tenth birthday rolls in at the end of March, on the 23rd. It’s one of Walt’s better days; Shaina is teaching the class as often as he is lately. But today, he’s up and about. Thinner than months past but in good spirits, at least by Walt’s standards. 

Brock doesn’t have a lot of friends. Jesse has known this, and it has provided him with more than one sleepless night, picturing the school photos of kids who’d committed suicide and ended up on the news, wondering if Brock would end up joining their ranks if he didn’t fit in. 

But Brock, for his part, doesn’t seem particular fazed. Adam and Callie are there, along with a little niece of Shaina’s by the name of Tanae, who is as quiet and studious as Brock and seems to get along just fine with all of them. 

Brock is sitting in a circle with his group, passing around “Catch Phrase” and dropping it as often as he gets the questions right. He and Callie are on the same team, while Adam is matched up with Tanae. That was Walt’s suggestion, with something mentioned about a sibling advantage. 

Jesse smiles as he watches his son. He hasn’t told him about Andrea’s phone call or the divorce; he doesn’t know how. His parents had always been together, and he doesn’t have any experience in dealing with children of divorce. He knows that Brock must, in some part of him, wish for Jesse and Andrea to get back together, and he doesn’t want to shatter that hope. And when he thinks about Andrea’s other news, he can’t help but worry that Brock would feel… replaced. 

So he stays quiet and just watches, standing by Walt as the kids play innocently. He sighs.

“How’re you doing, Mr. White?”

“Fine,” the older man replies, “Feeling all right.”

***

When the kids go home, Jesse gives Brock an extra slice of ice cream cake and sits across from him at the dining room table.

“How are you doing, Brock?” he asks gently. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Brock pipes up, scooping up a bit of the ice cream and shoveling it into his mouth.

“That’s good,” Jesse says and smiles gently. “I…” he starts, but can’t bring himself to tell his son what Andrea told him. “I’m really proud of you, sweetheart,” he says instead. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks Dad,” Brock chimes and reached out, hugging Jesse with his spoon still in hand. When Brock lets go, Jesse picks up another spoon.

“Can I steal some?” he teases.

“Noooo!” Brock protests, “Hey, that’s mine!”

***

Walt is curled up in bed, the way he claimed he’d never wanted to be. It’s been a bad day. Walt had barely woken up before being seized by coughing fits; he’d cancelled his class entirely for the day and retreated to the bedroom he and Jesse shared.

Jesse has tucked him in, curled the blankets gently around him, and given him a kiss on the cheek before rising to help Brock get ready. He struggles with how familiar the situation is, finds himself seized by memories of his aunt, the way she’d wasted away before his eyes and left him grown up in theory, but not in practice.

“Hey, Brock,” Jesse calls into Brock’s room. The boy is half-asleep and he lays half-on his bed, half-off it, with a teddy bear clutched in his arm and a fluffy purpose pillow under his head. He slowly wakes, opens one little brown eye and then the other. “Can I talk to you, honey?” Brock sits up and slowly shifts back.

“Okay? Do I not have to go to school today?” he asks hopefully. Jesse laughs.

“Sorry, kid,” he teases before he turns serious. “I know you know that Mr. White’s sick. How do you feel about that?”  
Brock thinks about it.

“Sad,” he says quietly, “I wish he didn’t have to die.” Jesse’s heart catches in his throat.

“So do I, Brock,” he whispers, “When… I was… a kid, really, but a lot older than you, I lived with my aunt. My mom’s sister. And she was sick, like Mr. White is. She had cancer, too.” Brock watches him with rapt attention, holding his bear a little closer. Jesse remembers with a pang that the bear had been a present from Andrea. “And she was… very sweet, such a nice person. She made me realize that I could be good. And then she passed away… and it was really hard. I didn’t really have anybody to talk to about it. So… If you ever need to talk to me, Brock… I’m here, okay?”

Brock nods, and moves to hug Jesse, too.

“I love you, Brock. You’re the best kid ever, okay? I love you.”

***

Brock sits in class, thinking over what Jesse had told him. He’s not sure whether he wants to go into this with Diamond the next time he sees her – even though she’s nice, he still kinda wonders if there’s something wrong with him that he has to talk to someone about his life every week – but he wishes he had a way to sort it all out.  
The teacher, who he still doesn’t like, has been spending the last twenty minutes talking about fractions. Brock’s not a fan of fractions.

Math is boring. Science, on the other hand… Science is cool. He’s only got a vague notion of what Mr. White does for a job, but he pictures exciting experiments, maybe something like Brock saw in a version of “Frankenstein”, creating something from nothing.

Bringing people back from the dead.

Brock’s fingers twitch. He wants to ditch the class lecture for the book he’s been reading – Matilda – but he’s sure he’ll get caught. The teacher still doesn’t like him, even though she doesn’t know about Jesse and Mr. White. Somehow, from Jesse’s mom’s reaction, he figures that a lot of people might not think that two guys liking each other is okay.

So he keeps quiet. But he likes Mr. White. The older man’s kind of odd, of course, but Brock likes him anyway. Jesse likes him, and Brock loves to see Jesse happy. For a while, he’d been so lost after Brock’s mom had left. They both had been.

Brock taps his fingers impatiently. He slips his hand into his backpack, takes out Matilda, and sneaks it open on top of his notebook. A success. He sighs happily and begins to read.


	33. Chapter 33

On a morning early in April, Jesse awakes to the sound of coughs and retching in the bathroom. He’s halfway used to it by now and is about to roll back over and give Mr. White his privacy, until he looks to his side and sees Walt by his side, fast asleep. 

Jesse jumps up frantically, every panic signal switched on at the realization that it’s Brock who’s sick. He moves to the bathroom door and quickly raps on it.

“Brock? You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Brock’s voice replies weakly.

“No you’re not,” Jesse replies, “Let me in.” When the door unlocks, Jesse moves in and scoops Brock up in his arms as he feels his own heart start beating a mile a minute. “What’s wrong baby?”

“I’m just sick,” Brock mumbles against Jesse’s chest. “I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

“Sweetheart, you can always wake me up, okay?” Jesse tells him firmly. He can feel Brock trembling in his arms, and he reaches up to press his palm to the boy’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

He swallows. Thoughts he doesn’t want to handle are racing through his brain; _Brock’s been poisoned again, someone broke in, someone wants to punish you, hurt you. Someone knows._ He has to get him to a hospital. He gazes back in the direction of the bedroom. A little horrible inkling of suspicion dances in his gut, but what would Walt have to gain from hurting Brock now? Before, if it had been him, it had likely been more strategic than vindictive, despite what Jesse had said at the time.

Regardless, it’s not a good idea to leave Walt alone when he himself is this sick. He considers calling Donya – she’s a nursing major after all, but she probably has a class to go to.

Jesse rises with Brock and leads him over to the bedroom.

“Mr. White,” he says sharply. “Get up. We gotta go.”

Walt sleepily replies, “Go where?”

“The hospital. Brock’s sick. No time to get ready.”

“I’ll be fine here,” Walt mumbles into his pillow. Jesse hisses through his teeth and bangs angrily on the wall. “Alright, alright!” Walt snaps, sitting up slowly and getting off the bed to pull on some clothes. When he’s ready, they head to the car. Jesse still hasn’t let go of Brock, who is clinging to him as he shakes feverishly. “What’s wrong with him?” Walt inquires.

“I don’t know.” Jesse’s voice breaks. He squeezes his son closely and moves to put him in the back seat, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and buckling him up as Walt climbs in to ride shotgun. Jesse reluctantly moves away from Brock and comes around to the driver’s side, and he floors it all the way to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, pulling in to the ER as he pictures having to call Andrea to tell him that her son got sick enough to end up in the hospital, sick enough to die on his watch.

He parks the car and runs around back. Walt pops open his own door and announces, “I’ll run ahead and get you signed in, okay?” He jets towards the entrance. Jesse unbuckles Brock and scoops him into his arms.

“It’s okay, honey, you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers. Brock weakly nods, closing his eyes. He moves as quickly as he can into the entrance and everything’s a blur for a while.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a voice announces, “Mr. Pinkman?”

“Yeah,” Jesse whispers out. A nurse walks over, takes a look at Brock and extends her hand. Jesse puts Brock back down upright, and she leads him away. 

“Okay, Mr. Pinkman, we’re just going to need a few more things. Do you have Brock’s CHIP card?” the receptionist inquires.

“Uh, yeah,” Jesse replies. He fumbles in his wallet and fishes it out.

“Okay, you and Mr. White take a seat. A doctor will come get you in just a moment.”

Jesse nods, flashing back to the Pediatric ICU in Albuquerque, the unbearable waiting, the knowledge – that turned out to be faulty – that Brock was dying. Now, he just doesn’t know…

_If they both die…_

He’s jerked out of his thought by Walt’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. Jesse. It’ll be okay,” he counsels. “These guys are the best. World-renowned. CHOP’s good at what they do.” Jesse nods weakly but doesn’t reply.

“Mr. Pinkman?” calls a voice. It’s the receptionist again. “Dr. Wallboro will talk with you now.” He gazes over at Walt, who nods.

“I’ll get the paperwork, Jesse. You go on, okay? If they need your signature, just get it when you come back,” he encourages. Jesse walks into an office, where Brock is lying down on a dark green padded table already. A tall doctor with brown hair that’s turning gray is standing there.

“Hey, Brock,” Jesse whispers. He reaches out and offers a little fist-pound, which Brock returns.

“All right, I’m going to get Brock admitted, get him a bed and everything. But it’s only precautionary,” the doctor explains.

“What does he have?” Jesse breathes, his heart pounding.

“The flu, Mr. Pinkman. It’s going around. Pretty nasty strain.”

“You’re sure?”

The doctor smiles.

“Absolutely. Listen, Mr. Pinkman, it says here you were Brock’s stepfather and then you adopted him a little while back?”

Jesse nods.

“It’s just new child jitters. Parents automatically think the worst thing is happening to their child. But you can breathe a sigh of relief. We’ll keep him overnight, get him rehydrated, and then he’ll be right back with you.”

“Could I stay with him?” Jesse asks, a knife going through his heart at the memory of being shut out for not being “immediate family” the last time. 

“Sure you can,” the doctor replies. He gestures to Brock. “Why don’t we go find you a room?” 

***

Brock comes home the next morning and immediately bounces back to his old routine of reading, playing video games and watching TV. Jesse watches him, wondering how the switch can just turn on like that. How does it work? Maybe he just doesn’t remember it from his own childhood. But Brock has recovered now as he did after the poisoning scare. Jesse guesses kids are just resilient.

Jesse’s birthday rolls around and the same group get together, celebrating his coasting from age twenty-eight into twenty-nine.

He tries to put on a bright face as he passes a slice of pizza to Walt. The older man’s face is gaunt; he hasn’t been able to eat the last couple of days but… maybe today.

The ending is coming; in fact, it seems to be racing painfully down the track. But Jesse doesn’t cry, not yet at least. He’s stoic. He has to be.  
Walt accepts the slice, nods his thanks and takes a bite as Jesse passes two slices to Shaina and Donya, and then one to Gabby.

“You’re ancient, Jesse,” Gabby teases. 

“I’m an old man,” Jesse agrees with a hollow smile. Another year for him. There won’t be one for Walt. Or what if there is, what if he lives for five more years but loses a little bit of himself each day? Jesse pictures watching him fade away until he’s simply a walking skeleton, bones clicking together as he hobbles.

Jesse shudders. He doesn’t know which outcome is worse.

He stands, staggers into his kitchen and tries to catch his breath. He can’t take it… but he has to. He’s not the eighteen year old kid who could hide behind a wall of drugs and pretend apathy as he did when his aunt had died. He had told everyone that he was just fine, while inside he had just wanted to break down. One day, he had, and she had…

He isn’t going to think about that now. He has a child of his own, now, he can’t act like one.

He walks back out. He doesn’t need to toss all of his doubts on Mr. White. Dying is hard enough.


	34. Chapter 34

There aren’t any good days after that. There are only okay days.

He still teaches his class, at least partially. Still draws up the lecture plans and grades the exams. 

Donya stops in to check on Walt while Jesse is in class, and Brock does his own part by fetching Walt’s pills and waters when he needs them (when he actually takes them).

On one of the okay days, Jesse suggests that they bring Brock to the park.

It’s a brisk, beautiful spring day. Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming. Jesse pushes Brock on the swings while Walt sits in the gazebo and looks around.

He considers what he’ll be leaving behind so very soon. Jesse and Brock. He sighs.

How is it that Jesse had once just been some pesky kid in his class who had fallen asleep or screwed around all the time? How had he become so central to Walt’s heart at a point where he’d been wondering if he even had one?

He watches a few cars drive by. There’s already bumper stickers for the election and November; Obama and Romney and a couple for Rick Santorum.

He knows he won’t be around to see how that one turns out. Time is running short. His rope is pulling taut.

He has done wrong by Jesse so, so many times. He closes his eyes and he sees Jane’s face, her eyes that had flown open when he had left her there. And Brock. Oh God, and Brock. How had he done that? 

It had been all strategy at the time, the rush to be Heisenberg, and at the time it had been worth it. That feeling of being on top, unstoppable. After he had killed Gus, when the relief had melted into triumph. No one could stop him then.

But the universe had had other plans. First he had lost Skyler and the kids. Then the new prognosis. Then this, this slow death.

But he can’t let the universe completely get one up on him. He knows what he must do, soon. When the time is right.

***

Things go from bad to worse in mid-May, just after finals. Walt won’t stop coughing. Jesse loads him into the car in a panic and drives to Thomas Jefferson Hospital.

They admit him, hook him up to a breathing machine. He gives permission for Jesse to be with him.

“You know, you can file to be a domestic partner,” the nurse tells him, “So you don’t have to worry about getting his permission every time.”

Jesse shrugs.

“I can’t,” he mumbles, “I’m still technically married to somebody else.” He rubs at his eyes. The divorce papers had arrived earlier that week, at last, but he hadn’t gotten to them yet with all the shakiness around Walt’s health.

He spends the day with Walt, sitting by his side, before he has to go get Brock from school.

***

“Can we go see Mr. White in the hospital?” Brock asks the nest morning, a Saturday.

Jesse looks over at him.

“You really want to spend your day with a bunch of sick people?”

Brock shrugs.

“It would be nice,” he tells Jesse. “He’s probably lonely.” Jesse reluctantly agrees, still worried about the idea that all this sickness, this cancer will scar Brock’s innocence somehow. Then again, how much of it is even still there after that day Tomas, Brock’s playmate and uncle, had been gunned down?

They leave; they take the subway to the hospital to try and make something a little different about it.

They are let in to Walt’s room, and he is resting but not asleep, breathing unassisted but still looking so small. Jesse wonders where all the substance to Mr. White, all the bulk and strength has gone. This is not Heisenberg, he’s not even sure if he’s still Walter White.

“Hey,” Brock calls, running up to the side of the bed and looking in on him.

“Hey, Brock,” Walt rasps back. His voice is low, barely above a whisper. “Jesse,” he inquires, “Is there… can you get me a pen from the front desk? I need… I want to write something.”

“Sure,” Jesse replies, turning and leaving Brock briefly in the room alone.

“Brock,” Walt says emphatically. He seems to measure his words. “I need… to tell you something.”

“What?” Brock’s eyes go wide and he leans in.

“When you were… six. You were… you got sick. That was my fault. I poisoned you. I’m sorry.”  
Brock’s brain spins a mile a minute. He can’t compute it. 

All he manages is, “Huh?”

“I’m sorry,” Walt repeats. He shuts his eyes and falls back asleep.

Brock swallows, he paces. He moves his hands to his pockets. He doesn’t know what to say or do, and simply leans in closer.

There’s a song he knows, and he whispers it, adapting the words: “Golden slumbers fill your eyes, smiles awake you when you rise, sleep Mr. White and do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby…” He pulls up Walt’s blanket and sits down in the nearby chair to wait for Jesse to return.


	35. Chapter 35

Walt is released from the hospital in the next few days. Jesse is sure that this is the first phase of a great deal of back and forth hospitalization, and he’s relieved that school is done for the semester, so he can spend all of his time focused on this.

They don’t talk about it. They try and continue as usual. Jesse keeps up on his studies in the interim, reading books as he keeps watch on his partner and raises his son.

“Hey, Mr. White. Look at this one.” He points to a selection in his American Lit textbook. “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer.”

Walt looks back at him, before giving him a wry smile.

“Yeah, Jesse,” he mumbles, rolling back over. “I know it.”

“You got enough painkillers?” Jesse inquires. Walt shrugs.

“Yeah. They have me on the good stuff. I’m sleepy as hell.”

“Well, sleep away. I’m not going anywhere,” Jesse tells him.

“Think I will.”

***

Jesse walks around the house, drops Brock off at school and intends to return to Mr. White-duty; he turns into the bedroom and starts at what he sees there.   
Walt is sitting, holding a syringe and fumbling with it.

“The hell are you doing?” Jesse yells, racing into the room. “What is that?”

“Fetanyl,” Walt fires back, “Back off.” Jesse stops just short of the bed and glares at him. 

“How much of that shit are you planning to put in your veins, Mr. White?” 

“Enough,” Walt replies, his hand shaking as he tries to keep his arm still.

“You want to die?” Jesse’s voice is shaking too, but he’s rooted to the spot.

“You call this living? Jesse, I’m done. It’s over.”

“You have never given up!” Jesse cries. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m just not going to hang on forever and waste away anymore. If you want to walk out, then goddamnit Jesse, walk out! No one’s making you stay and watch! But I’m not going to hang on for you! I’m done!” He’s trying to yell but his throat is too raw; it comes out little more than a hiss and a whisper.  
Jesse puts his hands over his face and tries to hold back a sob.

“You’re… you’re…” He can’t speak. Walt looks at him, but this time, his eyes don’t hold defiance, but pleading.

“Don’t take this from me, Jesse.” His hands are still trembling. “I can’t. I can’t get it. Please, Jesse.” His voice is so low. Jesse swallows. He takes a deep breath. Part of him ones to smack the needle out of his hand. He closes his eyes.

“Wait,” he whispers. He walks to the other room, feeling outside himself He reaches under the sink, grabs a pair of gloves, his whole body in a shudder. He can’t believe he’s doing this. But that look in Walt’s eyes… like he was already dead, dying from the inside out… and he is just going to do it anyway… If Jesse stopped him, he would hate him forever.

Jesse can’t let him die alone.

He walks back into the bedroom. Inside his heart is beating like a jackhammer, but somehow he projects the required calm.

“Give me the needle.” He speaks barely above a whisper and extends his gloved hand.

Walt hands it over, a suspicious look in his eye. Jesse should just trash it but again, he knows that Walt would always resent it. 

“Lay down, Mr. White,” Jesse instructs, and the older man listens and lays back, putting his head on the pillow. He’s gotten so thin. “Put your arm out… That’s right.” Jesse keeps his voice gentle, calming, like he’s doing something so different than what he is. Maybe he should walk away, see if Walt changes his mind.

_Mr. White never changes his mind._

Jesse stands by the side of the bed and reaches out, takes Mr. White’s arm in his hand and holds it steady.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Walt catches his eye and nods.

Jesse looks at the needle. The liquid is already inside. He slowly lines it up with Walt’s vein and pauses before pushing the plunger.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I always will. I’ll stay with you until you’re sleeping. Everything will be okay.”

“I love you too, Jesse,” Walt manages, and the younger man lets the plunger go. The moments slow down until Walt’s eyes shut, like they are too exhausted to stay open another second. His breathing slows next, and Jesse places a hand over his heart until he feels it stop.

He strips off the gloves and trashes them, along with the needle. He throws them in a dumpster behind the house, walks around the block and tries to compose himself.  
When he returns, he picks up his cell phone with shaking hands, counts to thirty and dials.

When they answer the phone, all that comes out of his mouth is, “I woke up, I found him, that’s all I know.” He drags his hand over his face, slumps down by the bed and waits for them to arrive.


	36. Chapter 36

Special Agent in Charge Hank Schrader pushes his cup of pens forward and sighs. Four meetings this week, and sixteen ASACs to talk to about… well, just about everything. Sometimes he still misses working in the field, but Marie would flip out if he acknowledged it. Considering the news she’d just given him, he couldn’t really blame her. At least she finally has that condo in Georgetown she had wanted.

“SAC Schrader?” his secretary’s voice comes over his intercom.

“Yes, Stacey?” 

“A call for you. It’s from someone named Jesse Pinkman.”

Hank is glad that Stacey can’t see him as he does a double-take and swivels his head a little. Jesse Pinkman? There’s a name he hasn’t thought about in three years. What the hell would he have to say to Hank? The statute of limitations on assault was over, so a shakedown was unlikely.

“What does he want?” Hank inquires.

“Says it’s about your brother-in-law.”

“Okay,” Hank relents, now totally confused. He hasn’t talked to Walt since he and Skyler divorced, and he hasn’t really heard from Skyler, either, though he’s vaguely kept up with Junior. “Put him through.”

He hears a click and prompts, “Yeah?” _Make it good, Pinkman._

“Uh, hey. Uh. It’s Jesse Pinkman.”

“Okay. What do you need, Mr. Pinkman?” He taps his pen. What is this, some kind of prank call? Is he going to ask if Hank’s refrigerator is running?

“Do you, uh, have any contact information for Mrs. White?” Jesse inquires after a moment. Hank drops his pen and it begins to hit him, through Pinkman’s voice and question, that this is about something serious.

“No,” he admits honestly. Marie had gotten some correspondence from Skyler before she’d moved away, but since then they’d lost touch. “Is this about Walt?”

“Yeah.” He hears Pinkman breathe out. “He’s dead.”

Hank narrows his eyes.

“Pinkman, I swear, if this is some kind of prank…”

“Check out the obituaries. Philadelphia Inquirer.” Pinkman’s voice sounds as if he is barely holding it together. Hank still has a flash of suspicion, though, and he pulls up the Inquirer.

Sure enough, he reads:  
 _White, Walter H., 54, May 24 2012. Beloved partner of Jesse Pinkman. Father to Walt Jr. and Holly, stepfather to Brock. Funeral will be held May 28. Internment private._

“Partner?” Hank inquires into the phone. “What does that mean?”

“It means partner.” Jesse’s voice is quiet. Hank stares at the phone for a few moments

“Would you want me to come to the funeral? I’m three hours away, in DC.” He figures Pinkman knows that already, though.

“That’d be good,” Pinkman replies. “It’d be good to have some of his family here. If you want to come up to the house, uh… we have a guest room.”

Hank takes down the address and then says goodbye. He stares at the piece of paper for a long time after that.

***

Hank pulls up in front of Jesse Pinkman’s house and pops open the door before going around to let Marie out of the passenger’s side. She stands and the two of them walk up, not speaking, before Hank rings the doorbell.

The door opens, and Jesse Pinkman is standing there. His face is the same, but his countenance has matured and his hairstyle has changed.

“Hey, come in,” Jesse tells him dispassionately. 

The two walk in and take a seat on Jesse’s couch.

“Nice place you got here,” Hank comments as he looks around. He notices a photo of Jesse in a tux, standing with a pretty Hispanic woman, and he is about to ask about it when a pair of small legs come bolting down the steps. A little boy, about nine or ten, appears in front of them and looks at Hank and Marie with wide eyes, not speaking.

Jesse looks from the boy to Hank with a look of sudden wariness, before coaxing, “Brock, these are Mr. and Mrs. Schrader. They were Mr. White’s brother and sister-in-law.”  
Brock, his name must be, waves at Hank and then at Marie.

“Well, hello,” says Marie, who has been uncharacteristically silent thus far. “Is this your…” She trials off, figuring that if Pinkman had had a son during all of the drama, Hank would have mentioned it.

“My son,” Jesse replies, but doesn’t explain any more, before approaching Marie with his hand extended. “I’m Jesse. As you know.”

“Marie,” Marie replies, shaking his hand before Hank awkwardly does the same. 

“So were you and Walt really…?” Hank asks, not finishing the question. 

“Yeah,” Jesse whispers. “We were a couple.”

“I never knew that Walt… was that why he and Skyler…?”

Jesse seems to consider the question a moment, before he replies, “Yes. But nothing happened until six months ago, when he came to stay here. He didn’t really… have anybody left.” Jesse looks like he’s been sleepwalking, and Marie exchanges looks with Hank.

“Jesse, are you going to be all right?” she inquires. “Is there… do you need anything?”  
Jesse shakes his head.

“No… No,” he whispers, “We just need to… there’s the funeral and then… just back to… everything. Thanks for coming out. I know I… we’re not really on the best terms.” Hank considers that Jesse still seems frightened of him, and he seems to be standing between Hank and Brock. Hank turns to the boy.

“Hey,” he calls, staying sitting so as not to be a threat. “So how old are you, Brock?”

“Ten,” the boy replies, gazing at him.

“Ten! Well, that’s pretty big. You been taking care of Jesse here?” Brock scoots around Jesse and approaches Hank, nodding. 

“Yeah,” he whispers conspiratorially, “He’s pretty sad about Mr. White.” Hank wonders at the whole “Mr. White” thing, but decides he’d rather not know. The knowledge that his brother-in-law was in a gay relationship with a low-level meth dealer is more than he wanted to know, already. 

“He is?” Hank reaches out and gently nudges Brock’s shoulder. “Well, you’ve got to look after him, okay? Give him lots of hugs. I’m sure that’ll help.” Brock cracks a smile and Jesse, to Hank’s surprise, cracks one too.


	37. Chapter 37

They bury Walter Hartwell White on a blue, sunny day. The cemetery is a large one, one with a peaceful atmosphere and a sense that the dead are watching the living passively, floating rather than creeping.

The service is surprisingly well-attended; Shaina has managed to drum together a relatively large portion of the General and Organic classes, about twenty people in all. Donya’s there too, of course, and so is Gabby. Along with hired hands, Jesse and Hank serve as pallbearers.

When it comes time to speak about Walt, Shaina takes the fore first. She adjusts the collar of her dress and takes a deep breath, before smiling nervously, as if she is back to addressing Walt’s Chemistry class again.

“Hi everybody. I’m Shaina. You all probably remember me. I was in Professor White’s Organic class, and I was his TA for General Chem. I was actually the one who encouraged him to go for the job originally. When I first met him… Well, I knew him as Jesse’s friend. I didn’t know that much about him, not yet, and I didn’t know that his time would be running so short.” She looks down, before looking back up again and scanning the room. “Working with Professor White was pretty exciting. He really knew his stuff. He loved the topic. He was passionate about Chemistry. And I’d like to say that I hope by the end of the whole experience, we considered each other friends as well as co-workers. I’ll miss him. I learned a lot through him. Thank you.” She walks off and rejoins Donya and Gabby.

Hank awkwardly walks to the front of the group. He keeps his eyes on Marie as he clears his throat and begins.

“Walt was a good man. He worked hard, for a long time. Things got… difficult towards the end. But I always looked up to him for – well, I used to say that he had a brain the size of Texas. Or maybe it was Montana. Big state.” There are a few quiet chuckles. “He taught kids. Helped them to learn. And even though Walt and I fell out of touch those last few years, it looks like… he never stopped. He just moved on to different places and kept doing what he was doing. And he fought, too. He fought it ‘til the end. Rest well, buddy.”  
Hank moves back over to Marie, palms sweating.

Jesse is last, and he reluctantly steps up in front of everyone, his hands shaking as he criticizes himself mentally in Mr. White’s voice: _Do this right, Pinkman! Don’t screw up._

He clears his throat and looks for a friendly face, finding one in Brock, who is dressed in a little black tux and is looking at him with his usual trust.   
Jesse begins to speak.

“When I first met Walter White, I was eighteen years old, and I thought I knew it all. I was too cool for school. I didn’t find anything important in all these chemicals and matter and compounds… None of it meant anything to me.” He breathes out and swallows. “When I met Walter White again, I was twenty-five years old… and I thought I knew it all. He tried to tell me how to live my life. What I should do. He tried to look out for me when that was the last thing I thought I wanted. We argued. I don’t want to get into it, but he saved my life. Probably more than once. We didn’t part on good terms.” He pauses, breathes in, actively does not look at Hank and Marie. “When I met Walter White for the last time, I was twenty-eight, and by that point I had learned that I didn’t know a damn thing. I did, however, fall in love with him. Mr. White showed me… a lot. Proved a lot to me. It breaks my heart that I will no longer turn around and see him, hear his voice ever again.” He swallows to keep from crying. “A lot of people have asked me, they said, ‘Jesse, you two are together. Why do you still call him Mr. White?’ Well, because he has always been my teacher. My mentor. I will always look up to him, I will always respect him, and I will always love him. I miss you, Mr. White.”

Jesse walks off the stage, not looking around at anyone. 

***

That night, Brock can hear Jesse crying as he lies in bed. He leaves his own room behind and slips in, before walking up to the too-big bed where Jesse sleeps and throwing a little arm around him. Jesse shuffles and settles, and Brock whispers to him that it’ll be all right. Somehow.


	38. Chapter 38

“Well, listen. As your lawyer, I’m recommending a good old restraining order. I mean, no offense, but look at your face.”

Andrea Cantillo Pinkman glares, but doesn’t get up. At eight months pregnant, it’s too much of an effort, despite how much she’d love to smack the man across the face.

“Thanks a lot, Saul. You’re really helping.” She drags a hand over her own face. “He’s not going to pay attention to a restraining order. I got the cops to take him in, but that will only be for a night or so, unless I press charges, and even if I do… I just kept taking him back before, so what’s different now?”

“The twenty-five bruises on your face, for one,” Saul replies. “Seriously. I’m being serious. I know we don’t have that kind of relationship but… I would call ‘bail’.”

“What about my daughter?” Andrea asks. “I can’t raise her on my own. My grandmother cut me off after Rick broke one of her mirrors.” She leans forward. “Should I just give her up for adoption and just move to… Seattle or something? What am I even doing here?”

Saul doesn’t get a chance to respond before a third figure bursts into the office. He looks up at the newcomer and shakes his head.

“Hello there, Mike. What can I do for you? I’m sort of with a client right now…”

“I noticed,” Mike replies dryly, before looking at Andrea.

“Excuse me,” Andrea begins, “But do I know you?”

“No,” Mike replies bluntly, “But I know your husband.”

“Rick. Oh, no, he’s not my husband. He’s just my…”

“No,” Mike cuts in, “Not that piece of shit. Your _husband_. Jesse Pinkman.”

Andrea raises an eyebrow.

“I just came from the police station. Happened to be doing some other work when I overheard two officers talking about you and your Mr. Wonderful. Not to mention that I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you moved back here.”

“Uh, thanks Mike,” Saul cuts in, “But we were just…”

Mike reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white cardboard ticket, before handing it to Andrea.

“What’s this?”

“A bus ticket. To Philadelphia. You will be using it, whether you like it or not.”

Andrea widens her eyes. She believes him.

***

Jesse is sitting on the couch watching Chelsea Lately when the doorbell rings. As he makes his way over to open the door, he remembers how Walt had arrived that one day, had walked back into his life and changed it all over again. 

He wonders who the hell could be at the door at eleven o’clock at night.

He opens the door anyway, but is not prepared for the sight of Andrea, wearing large black sunglasses, heavily pregnant and dragging a blue suitcase. Her hair is drenched from the pouring rain.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Andrea.” Jesse stares at her.

“I… I..” She’s dripping, soaked. “I was an idiot. I was so… so wrong. I… I’m sorry.” Jesse keeps staring a moment, before he ushers her inside. “Come in, sit down.”  
Andrea moves in and sits down on the couch.

“You’re drenched,” Jesse tells her. “Did you bring any change of clothes? I still have some of your stuff upstairs but it might… not fit. Why’d you come back? What happened?”

“I… couldn’t stay there anymore. He just got too crazy. He needed to know where I was all the time. He was always putting me down. He kept me hooked on crystal ‘til I was pregnant and then he was always going crazy saying I was fat, I was ugly and he just… a few days ago he got drunk and came home and he…” She reaches up and pulls off her sunglasses. Jesse stares in horror. She looks as bad off as Jesse did when Hank and Tuco had gotten done with him. Her eye is black, and there’s a huge bruise across her cheek.

“Baby,” Jesse whispers. He reaches out and presses his fingers to her cheek, softly stroking it, as if trying to take away the pain and replace it with something warm and safe. 

“Jesse,” Andrea breathes out.

“Are you here to stay?”

Andrea nods.

“Do you know some scary old man named Mike? He paid for my ticket.”

Jesse’s heart beats faster.

“Mike… Mike’s still…” Mike is still alive. Mike sent Andrea home to me.

He sits down next to her and reaches out, softly touching her arm. She flinches, then settles.

“Is the baby okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Andrea says softly. “I haven’t been to the doctor yet.”

“We’ll go. I’ll bring you,” Jesse offers.

“But do you want… I mean are we… will you have me back? Even after all of this?”

“I’ll have you back.” He covers her hand with his own. “Let’s go get you a change of clothes, okay? You’ll freeze up. And do you want to see Brock?”

She nods, still seeming a little shell-shocked. He walks to her suitcase and opens it, handing her a stack of clothes. He gently takes her arm and leads her upstairs and into the bathroom, before peeking in on Brock. He’s still asleep. He’ll wait; he doesn’t know if Andrea wants him to come up with a cover story for the bruises.  
When she emerges from the room, he asks what she wants him to say.

“I don’t know,” Andrea whispers, “Car… Car accident? The bus, maybe.”

“Okay,” Jesse whispers back. “Or you could tell him the truth.” Andrea looks uncertain, and Jesse moves into Brock room and gently nudges him awake. “Hey, Brock. I want you to come see somebody.” He stands up and heads out into the hall, and lets out a squeal when he sees his mom.

“Are you staying, Mommy?” Brock asks, clinging to her.

“Yes, honey. I’m here to stay,” Andrea tells him. “You’re getting so big, sweetheart. Have you been having fun with Jesse?” Brock nods and hugs her tighter.  
Jesse lets out a sigh and smiles as he looks at the two. His wife and son.

***

They lay side by side and facing one another in their bed, talking in hushed tones.

“What are we going to do about the baby?” Andrea whispers.

“Whatever you want to do,” Jesse tells her.

“You don’t… have to be involved with her, if you don’t want.”

“I think it’d be easier to just love her,” Jesse whispers against her ear. She shivers and loops her arm around him. “Can I…” Jesse begins sheepishly, “Talk to her?” Andrea nods, and Jesse reached out, putting a gentle hand on her stomach. “Hi there. You don’t… know me yet. But I’m Jesse. I’m going to love you, take care of you, protect you. Always.” He looks up at Andrea with surprise. “I think I felt a kick, there!”

Andrea grins.

“I did, too.”

“What are you going to name her?” Jesse asks, and strokes his fingers over her stomach again.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t decided. Do you have any… suggestions?”

Jesse thinks. There’d been a time when he’d been thinking, in his loneliness, if he ever had another child, maybe adopted one…

“Zurine.”

Andrea nods.

“That’s Spanish for ‘white’,” she tells him, and he nods, too.

***

“Jesse, Jesse, Jesse,” Andrea cries out as she clings to him with one arm. “Oh God.” She closes her eyes and pushes.

“It’s okay, Andrea,” Jesse coaxes, “It’s all right. Hang in there. I love you, Andrea. You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Andrea focuses on Jesse’s voice. The epidural has yet to kick in and it’s very close to being too little, too late. But Jesse is here, sweet Jesse. How had she walked out on him? She had been so mixed up about Jesse’s past drug dealing that she’d wandered into the arms of another drug dealer, and a far worse one.

But now – Jesse is here. Everything hurts but Jesse is here and then suddenly, the pain plateaus and she can hear the sound of crying.

When the daze wears off, she lays there holding Zuri in her arms, with Jesse standing beside her.

“What’s her name?” the doctor inquires.

“Zurine Hartwell Pinkman,” Andrea replies.

“You’re the dad?” the doctor nods his head at Jesse, who nods as well.

“Yup. Can I hold her?”

Jesse sucks in a breath as the baby is placed in his arms. He had thought that Brock was small, but Zuri is miniscule, with perfect little fingers and toes.

“Hey, little one,” he whispers. “It’s me again. Everything’s going to be okay. I love you.”


	39. Epilogue 1

“Zurine Hartwell Pinkman! You quit kicking that chair right this second.” Andrea turns and gives her four-year-old daughter a look that clearly indicates that she means business. Zuri quits kicking… at least for now. She has grown from the tiny infant that Jesse had held in his arms into a mischievous little girl with pudgy cheeks and curly black hair.

“When’s Brock gonna be on?” she asks, peeking over at Jesse and attempting to climb into his lap.

“Zuri,” Andrea mumbles, “Stay still.” Jesse laughs.

“Fat chance, I guess.”

“Okay,” the announcer on stage says, “Next up we will have Brock Pinkman performing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ on piano with accompanying vocals.” Jesse and Andrea’s eyes dart to the front, as Brock takes the stage. He’s a fifteen year old with short black hair and the same big brown eyes, now with a light dusting of dark facial hair. He slides down into his bench, begins to play, and begins to sing.

***

“Your grandparents and uncle are around here somewhere,” Jesse comments, as Brock comes over to meet them after the performance. “They want to meet us for dinner.” Jesse grabs his son’s shoulder playfully. “Great job, by the way.”

“Is it okay with someone comes with us? To dinner I mean?” Brock inquires.

“Sure! Who?”

Brock gestures, and a girl with long black hair and blue eyes walks over.

“Hi, Mr. Pinkman,” the girl says, extending her hand. “I’m Lily Feeny.”

“Oh, ‘Jesse’ is fine,” Jesse replies. “It’s nice to meet you.” He reaches out and picks up Zuri, who looks about ready to escape. “Used to be able to pick him up like this,” he tells Lily. “The good old days.”

They eventually located Jesse’s parents, and Jake, and venture off in the cars, en route to Nifty Fifties. When they arrive, they take seats at a big table, with Brock and Lily on one side, Jesse, Andrea, and Zuri next to them, and Janet, Adam, and Jake on the other side.

“So, Andrea,” Janet inquires, “When is your due date?”

“Oh, November fifth,” she replies, “I still have a little while to go.”

“What are you naming her?”

Andrea smiles and looks at Jesse.

“Jennifer Inez.”

“Nice.” Janet nods in mild approval. “So, Brock, what does the future hold for you?”

“I’m trying to get into NYU’s theater program,” he explains. “It’s going to be easier since I went to CAPA and all.” He grins. “Dad wanted me to go to Central, and I did get in, but… y’know.”

“Teenage rebellion,” Jesse quips, “I could handle it.”

Jake rolls his eyes, shifting up on his bench.

“How come we chose some place without any liquor?” he complains. “I just took ten exams in one week. I need a shot of whiskey.”

“Because we’re not all of age here, Jake,” Jesse replies, picking up a menu and flipping through. “How is MIT treating you? Third year, right?”

“Yeah,” Jake replies, sifting a hand through his hair.

“Jake made Dean’s List again,” Janet pipes up.

“That’s great,” Jesse replies, “Way to go!”

“You ever need any tips or anything,” Jake tells Brock, “You just ask me.”

Brock laughs good-naturedly.

“Thanks. Jesse’s been helping me make lists, though,” he replies.

“How does he have time? Those little kids must keep you pretty busy, huh big brother?” Jake asks.

“Well, they’re good kids,” Jesse replies, “Teaching art to kids that age is great. They’re not all worried about whether they’re good or not, yet. There are kids who just really love it, and, well, that’s what it’s really about, right?”  
Jake shrugs.

“But you’re getting their hopes up if they’re not any good.”

“Who’s to say what’s good, though? There’s a lot of painters who are famous now, but people told them that they sucked.”

“Yeah, sure. All your kids are gonna be the next Picasso. We just reward mediocrity these days.”

“I swear, Jake,” Jesse cuts in, “If you go on that rant about how everyone gets a prize these days…”

“Do they do this a lot?” Lily asks Brock.

“Yeah,” Brock replies. “Every single time. I don’t think President Jindal argued this much in the debates.”

They’re briefly interrupted as the waitress takes their orders, and then departs.

“So how about you, Lily?” Andrea inquires. “Tell us about yourself.”

“Well, I’m in the acting program. I want to go to school to be a pilot though, actually.”

“Sounds exciting,” Jesse tells her. “I’ll tell you, no one is getting me in one of those little planes. Too nerve-wracking.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Andrea teases him.

“I got all my risk-taking done in my twenties,” Jesse replies.

“What’d you do?” Zuri pipes up.

“You will never find out. Otherwise I’ll be a hypocrite when I tell you not to do stuff!”

“What’s a hypocrite?” Zuri asks.

“A person who tells you not to do something and then does it themselves.”

“That’s stupid,” Zuri declares.

“I agree, honey.” Jesse pats her on the head.

***

When dinner has ended, Jake takes Brock aside.

“Hey, listen, I got you something.” He extends his hand and hands Brock a little plastic card.

“What’s this?”

“A fake ID!” Jake replies. “I was thinking we could hit up the bars on 2nd.”

Brock looks at the ID a moment, before handing it back to Jake.

“Thanks, Uncle Jake, but I have other plans tonight. Maybe next time.”

Jake rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t know where you get off being such a goody-two-shoes. Do you even _know_ what your stepdad used to get up to?”

“I do,” Brock replies, “Know what my _dad_ got up to. But I have other plans tonight. Sorry.” He turns and walks back towards Lily, before approaching Jesse. “Hey, I was going to walk Lily home and then come back home. Is that all right?”

“Sure, Brock. No problem.”

Brock and Lily slip out of the restaurant and start walking towards Lily’s house, which is a few blocks east.

“So what are you doing after?” Lily inquires.

“Well, me and my dad are gonna head by the cemetery.”

“Oh?” Lily looks at him.

“Yeah. There’s this guy – well, it’s complicated. Five years ago there was this time where my mom and my dad were separated, and my dad was with this guy.”  
Lily nods.

“And he got sick and died. Five years ago exact. So I figured… You know, he’s probably having a hard time.” Brock picks up a rock and skips it across the road. “Can I tell you something weird? That I’ve never told anyone before?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“When… well, the guy my dad was with, when he was sick, he told me something weird. Said he’d poisoned me as a kid.”

“Well, that is pretty weird,” Lily replies. “What was he sick with?”

“Cancer.”

“Well, you know. That explains it,” Lily tells him. “Sometimes it goes to their brain, you know. Then they say weird stuff that never happened. Or they think you’re somebody you’re not?”

“So I never got poisoned?”

“You never asked your dad about it?” Lily inquires. Brock shakes his head.

“Nah. I just kept it to myself. What do you do with something like that, y’know?”

“Oh, I hear you. Nah. I think you’re all right.” She reaches out and gently nudges him in the shoulder as they arrive at her house. She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Brock’s lips. “I better get in. My dad’s something else.” She chuckles and gives Brock a hug.

“When am I going to meet him?”

“Oh, we’ll see. I think we’ll have time.” Lily breaks into a grin and turns. “I’ll be thinking of you guys tonight,” she calls back seriously.

***

At the cemetery where Walt is buried, they don’t lock up after dark. They haven’t had much problem with vandals, Jesse figures. He and Brock walk in stride until they get to the correct spot. It’s a big gray slab of marble, and the engraving for the name is in bold capital letters: WALTER HARTWELL WHITE. Jesse hadn’t known home to describe him, so instead of “father, son, brother” or whatever people usually put, Jesse had selected a quote from the Les Miserables musical:  
“Take my hand and lead me to salvation,  
Take my love for love is everlasting,  
And remember the truth that once was spoken,  
To love another person is to see the face of God…”

Jesse looks at it, not speaking, and his son stands beside him. They’re there a long time, before Brock leans down, placing the bouquet of flowers in front of the stone.   
It’s a warm night.


	40. Chapter 40

“I don’t if I can do this,” Zuri Pinkman blurts out as she pulls her hair out of the ponytail for the tenth time in an hour.

“Take a deep breath,” Brock instructs her. “It’s okay.”

“Uh, no. It’s not,” Zuri replies. She sighs and looks in the mirror. “Okay. I mean, yeah, it’s not. I’m just… I didn’t think I’d be doing this for ages. I’m nineteen, burying my second parent in a year and – wohoo – pregnant. I’m a disaster.”

Brock shakes his head.

“You’re not a disaster, Zur. You’ll do fine. Just speak from your heart, okay? It’s what he would want.” He puts an arm around his sister and hugs her. “Did he ever think you were a disaster?”

Zuri shakes her head.

“No,” she relents.

“So you’re not one.” Brock pats her on the shoulder. “Our lives are just… complicated. But not always in a bad way. I mean… a lot of people don’t even like their parents. We had two really good ones. And Bob isn’t a half-bad stepdad, either.”

Zuri giggles despite herself.

“’Cept when he starts singing Frank Sinatra.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“You guys, you’re taking forever. Zuri, you’d be late to your _own_ funeral!” 

“Shut up, Jenny!” Zuri fires back. “Hold your horses.” She walks over, though, and opens the door. “Happy now?”

“Not really, no.” Jenny rolls her eyes and adjusts her hair a moment. “Well. Let’s go do this.” She groans. Brock looks at her and gives her an encouraging hug.

“We can do this. Let’s go.”

***

“We are gathered here today to remember the life of Jesse Bruce Pinkman. Jesse has been a friend, a father,” the priest gestures to Brock, Zuri, and Jenny, “a son, a brother. To many here today, he was their teacher, or their child’s teacher.” He looks out into the group that has gathered.

Brock considers the fact that Jesse is having a Catholic funeral a little ironic – after all, he’d only converted to make Andrea happy back when they were still together. But Brock figures a Catholic is a Catholic, and he’s not going to be the one to complain. 

“Love is patient, love is kind,” the priest reads, “It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.”

The three walk forward, approaching the plot in which Jesse will be buried.

“Dad gave me this,” Brock says, showing Zuri and Jenny an envelope. “We need to read it after.” 

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest intones after Jesse’s casket is lowered. The three bow their heads. Jenny holds back tears, curling into Brock.

Brock finds his eyes darting to the headstone next to where Jesse’s will be. Brock gives it a little nod.

***

As the three stand outside Jesse’s home, which had also been their own, Brock finally opens the envelope and takes out the letter. 

He reads:  
“Brock, Zuri, and Jenny:  
 _Brock_ – My son. I am more proud of you than words could even describe. I still remember that day in your mother’s house when we met for the first time, and I gave you a fist pound. I didn’t know yet that you would be the light of my life. Now you’re a grown man with a wife and children of your own. Take care of them and love them and I know you will succeed in whatever else you do.  
 _Zuri_ – My angel. Nineteen years old already! You’ve always been so sweet and kind. Keep being that person. Don’t let anything else get you down. Other people will give you their opinion but I trust that you’re going to find what makes you happy in life. You are the splitting image of your mother and she would be so proud of you, too.  
 _Jenny_ – The littlest one. Though not nearly so little these days. Fifteen? A junior? I don’t know where the time went. You are capable, smart, and determined, just like your brother and sister. I know you’ll finish school with flying colors and make a difference in the world somehow.   
I love all three of you. You are my everything. I wish I knew what I had done in my life to deserve to have three such beautiful, kind children. I will always be with you. Just look for me.  
In my will, I will be splitting everything I have evenly. However, given the recent news from Zuri, I would like to leave you the house. I hope it will get you and your child off to the right start; raise him or her with love and then you’ll do just fine. I only ask that you let Jenny move in with you if she wants to; your sister needs a place to be safe and follow her dreams, too.   
I wish I could tell each of you every day just how much you mean to me and how much you changed my life. But, alas, time is short.  
Love,  
Your Dad”

 

Zuri stares at Brock when he finishes reading.

“He left me the house,” she mumbles as she looks at Jenny. “Do you want to live with me or with Brock?” Jenny looks over at her big brother.

“No offense, but I don’t really want to change schools.”

“None taken.” Brock looks at his sisters and hugs them both. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” He stares at the letter for a long time. Maybe it’s all that’s left of the man. But maybe it’s not.

**FIN**


End file.
